Let the White Dove Sing
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: It began easily enough: God said join the choir, so she did. But when Joan finds a new best friend there, she also uncovers a terrifying secret, the like of which she has never confronted before. And with this secret come deadly consequences.
1. Ruthie

**Title:** _Let the White Dove Sing_

**Author: **Vivi Dahlin (aka Jennifer)

**Rating:** Starts out G/PG but will be bumped up to an R-rating around chapter 6 due to language and violence.

**Summary:** It began easily enough: God said join the choir, so she did. But when Joan finds a new best friend there, she also uncovers a terrifying secret, the likes of which she has never confronted before. And with this secret comes deadly consequences.

**Author's Note:** Just a warning… this starts out pretty light, but it will take a much darker turn later on. I will be changing the rating by chapter 6, so keep an eye out for a switch to the other ratings section. Also, the story has been completed, but I ran out of time to revise before school started, which means I'll probably post one chapter every few days, or whatever, to give myself time to look it over and do any necessary tweaking. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

* * *

**To K.C., the best muse a writer could ask for; to the "Girardis" – I love and miss you all; and to Dorothy – pal, without you this story would be a whole lot more depressing. Thanks for your input.**

* * *

"Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing 

Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning

Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong

Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay

It's Independence Day"

-- Martina McBride, "Independence Day"

* * *

**RUTHIE**

Helen Girardi stood back and squinted at the painting. If you tilted your head just enough to the right, the splotches of color and erratic brush strokes morphed together into an odd resemblance of a chicken. Wearing a fedora. And knitting.

She moved to the next easel and immediately felt an urge to step back and shield her eyes. Her students had gotten liberal with the neon paints for this assignment, and the artwork she was studying now was such a chaos of bright pinks, yellows and greens, that she felt mildly seasick. Luckily class was not in session just yet, so her aversion to this particular piece went unobserved. Feeling guilty nonetheless, Helen devoted a few extra seconds to analyzing the painting and trying to find a deeper meaning beneath the loud, abrasive palette. The assignment _had_ been to create art that hid a secret.

"Knock, knock."

Breaking the somewhat hypnotic effect the painting was starting to have, Helen turned towards the voice. In the doorway that led to the hall, which would be noisy with students in about twenty minutes, a small blonde girl was clutching an armload of papers and looking misplaced. Her mane of thick silky hair was in a loose updo that might have started out tidy when she left the house, but had since fallen into gossamer strands about her shoulders. It gave her an attractive and breezy sort of air, but combined with her tweedy skirt suit and pumps, she appeared too mature for her age. Like she had expected to attend a business meeting today, rather than high school. The only part of her outfit that seemed youthful enough was its mixture of fresh pastel colors, springtime shades, including those cotton candy pink shoes which Helen found quite adorable. Compared to the _Attack of the Killer Neon_ monstrosity, it was like looking at an Impressionist painting of sunrise.

Helen got the strange urge she should be capturing the girl on canvas. But it dawned on her she hadn't even spoken to the poor thing yet. "Yes," she said quickly, rounding one of the tables that separated her from the doorway, "yes? May I help you?"

"I hope so." The girl flashed a dimpled-cheek smile. "I'm a little lost. Could you direct me to the office?"

"Oh." Helen returned the friendly smile. "Sure. You go down this hall, take a right, keep going till you reach the second hall on the left, then it's about five doors..." Helen thought she saw a spark of terror in the girl's wide eyes. She smiled again. "Or I could just show you."

"That would be-" The girl relaxed her grip on the papers and flitted her hand out in a gesture that seemed to sweep away the rest of her sentence. "Thank you."

"Let me guess, it's your first day," Helen said, easing the door shut as they passed into the hall.

"Uh-huh. But I was here last week, in the office and everything, took the whole tour of campus."

Helen caught the girl's sheepish expression when they turned the corner.

"I'm a loser when it comes to directions. I couldn't find my way out of a wet paper bag, I swear. I'll probably be back at your door tomorrow morning."

Helen chuckled. The girl had an animated way of speaking, playing with each word till it came out just so. Her voice was tinged in southern, Helen thought, and sounded like it should be coming from an eleven-year-old.

"Well, I'm Helen Girardi, the art teacher here. You can stop by my door any time you like."

"I'm Ruthie—well, Ruth Anne." Ruthie thrust out her hand, stopping her heels mid-_clickity_-_clack_. "Ruth Anne Snow. Call me Ruthie."

Of all the reactions Helen had elicited from a student, being offered a handshake had never been one of them. She liked this Snow kid. She liked her a lot.

"It's nice to meet you, Ruthie." Helen clasped Ruthie's hand, more of a light press than a shake, before continuing past the open classrooms waiting to be filled by sleepy, incredibly bored teenagers. "What grade are you in?"

"In?" Ruthie puzzled over that one for a moment, then burst into giggles that echoed in the empty hall. She quickly covered her mouth, continuing to snicker behind her well-manicured fingers. The stack of papers had settled into the crook of her arm and she took Helen by the elbow companionably. "Honey, I'm not a student. I'm the new music teacher."

Helen did a double-take. "You're kidding."

"Nope." Ruthie shook her head, unable to conceal a grin. "It's the voice, right? That always throws people off. That, and my height. There's only so much these things can do for a girl," she said, displaying the high heel on her shoe by jutting her foot out briefly, then falling back into step.

It was all making sense to Helen now. The hair, the outfit, the handshaking. She suddenly became keenly aware of the height difference between herself and Ruthie. It hadn't been important before; she had noted that Ruthie was slight for a high schooler, something she chocked up to puberty or lack of, guessing Ruthie as a freshman. But now the gap between them felt unnaturally vast, exaggerated by the fact that Ruthie's pumps and Helen's flats didn't bring them much closer in size.

"I'm sorry," Helen blurted, feeling foolish. "But you're so... diminutive. And you look-- well, so young. I'm sorry."

"Oh, diminutive. I like that one." Ruthie tilted her head thoughtfully. "I usually get 'tiny' or 'little.' Or just plain 'short.'" She crinkled her nose with distaste. "It only gets irritating when people are rude though. Other than that, it's kind of nice being mistaken for someone half my age."

Helen was tempted to ask what half of Ruthie's age would be. Even after spotting the wedding ring on her hand, it was hard to believe she could be any older than fifteen or sixteen. But harping on that risked falling into the rude category, and Helen couldn't tolerate rudeness. So she changed the subject.

"Did you just move to Arcadia?"

Ruthie nodded. "From New York. My husband is a cop; he transferred to the department here."

"No kidding," Helen said, delight evident in her tone. "My husband's a cop too. Will Girardi. Now that I think of it, he mentioned a new guy named Snow the other day."

Ruthie made a sound that was half-singing, half-squealing, as if she was preparing to turn her next phrase into a song. She was definitely the new music teacher. "That is too cool!"

"I know. Small world, right?"

As if to back that statement up, by the time they reached the office, they had discovered that not only were they both G.R.I.T.S., an acronym meaning Girls Raised in the South, which Ruthie promptly dubbed them as, but they also had family members back in Texas who lived within "spitting distance" of one another. Maiden names were divulged, as were alma maters and ex-places of employment. They were both mothers too, Helen with her three, and Ruthie bursting with pride for her daughter and son, ages five and two, respectively. They had become old friends in a matter of minutes.

Which is why, before they parted ways, Helen needing to get back to her classroom because the bell was ringing, and Ruthie anxious to speak with Price and get settled in for her first day, Helen tossed out the idea: "Why don't you come by my house for dinner sometime this week, bring your family? I'd like to meet your husband. And kids. And you can meet mine." She added the last bit with a playful roll of the eyes, like Ruthie was in for quite the treat.

Ruthie laughed and didn't answer right away. Or maybe Helen just imagined the pause, because after shifting her armload of papers from left to right and back again, Ruthie accepted. "That's so nice of you. I would love that. I'll talk to my husband about it, I'm sure he'd be happy to meet y'all." She scrunched her shoulders and gazed upwards in an impish way, a habit she seemed to have, one that was childlike and probably acquired from years of being smaller than everyone else. "Our families are practically twins, after all."

* * *

Joan leaned towards the mirror until her forehead was almost touching it. Arcadia and summer were having trouble ending their rendezvous and had reunited for one last fling, a smattering of Indian summer that meant lots of perspiring for those who hadn't listened to the weather forecast and dressed accordingly. And Joan wasn't big on meteorology. Hence, all the sweating. And the gigantic zit square in the middle of her forehead, red and eye-catching like the cherry on top a police cruiser. Sweating always made her break out.

She gave the blemish a couple futile pokes, irritating it till it was even more noticeable, then dropped her hands to her side and groaned. "Oh, my God."

"You rang?"

Unprepared for the reply and startled by the face that had appeared over her shoulder in the mirror, Joan drew a sharp breath and kicked out her leg, the sturdy toe of her boot meeting the back of her open locker with a clang that brought stares from passersby. She had to grab the locker door in both hands to keep from falling right into the cubbyhole where her textbooks, broken eraserless pencils, forgotten candy, and some unidentified gummy substance mingled in the deep dark corners.

"Whoa," she cried, trying to regain balance. She whirled around, her long hair fanning out behind her and swinging to the opposite side, cruising over her shoulder without halting, like it meant to keep going and twist itself completely around her face. "What," she huffed, flinging away the hair, "is your problem? You scared me to death."

It was Goth God, with his blue and purple spiky hair bluer and purpler and spikier than ever. Despite the heat, he was wearing his usual cacophony of gear that looked like Marilyn Manson's closet had thrown up on him. Just the sight of his thick leggings made Joan itchy and twitchy in her own too-warm clothes. He stared at her blandly. A fluorescent green smiley face sticker adorned one of the silver studs on his leather jacket, an absurd contrast.

"Don't exaggerate, Joan."

"I--" She was about to say she never exaggerated, but she couldn't stand there and lie directly into the face of the Almighty. Even if he did have on black lipstick and lots of pretty earrings. "Look, I'm a little cranky from the heat right now, okay? And this friggin' boulder isn't helping matters either." She pointed at the zit. "Could we not get into any long, metaphorical conversations? Just tell me what I'm supposed to do this time, and as long as it doesn't require putting on a turtleneck or bringing my blood to an actual boil-" She pinched her index finger and thumb together in the air, trapping that word for a moment to make an impression about how strongly she meant it "- a _boil_... I will do it." She took a breath, feeling woozy.

Goth God blinked and handed Joan the flier he had been holding. "Join the choir," he said. "And for the record, you've done most of the talking so far."

Joan looked at the paper, at God, at the paper again. _Choir auditions begin this Tuesday_, it read. _Anyone may participate, see Mrs. Snow for details_. Joan narrowed her eyes at the name Mrs. Snow, connecting it with the heat, sensing mockery in its timing. She held the flier up for God, like he hadn't already seen it. "The choir? What is with you and music? I joined the band, I was in the zombie musical, and now I need to be in choir? I don't even know who Mrs. Snow is. Did you make her up just to annoy me?"

"She's new. You'll like her," God replied. He gazed disinterestedly into the distance behind Joan and jutted his chin towards whatever was there.

Her shoulders drooped with the effort it took to turn around and look. She had to scan the hall for a moment, letting her eyes find the same path God's were traveling. When they did, she saw a blonde woman standing on tiptoe in front of a bulletin board, her dainty pink heels slipping off the backs of her feet as she tried to reach an empty spot where she could staple one of many papers that resembled what Joan was holding.

"If you hurry, you can help her."

"And who's gonna help me?" Joan asked wearily, but only half serious. She faced Goth God, her lower lip verging on a pout. "You could at least hide this zit for me, since I'm about to do your bidding and all."

With a wry smile, Goth God reached into what might have been a pocket or just another hole in the fabric of his shredded... pants. Skirt? Joan couldn't tell. In any case, he retrieved something and fiddled with it, using his jagged black fingernails to peel away its backing. He motioned to Joan, and when she bent forward, he stuck the something to her forehead. Curious, she swiveled and caught her reflection in the mirror on the back of her locker door. "Oh, ha ha, very funny," she called to God, ignoring his backward wave as she glared at the yellow smiley face sticker on her brow.

In the time it took to slam her locker shut, remember she needed books, open the locker back up, and shut it again once she had grabbed her satchel, she forgot about the sticker. But not about Mrs. Snow. Joan gave the stink-eye to the woman's back as she walked towards the bulletin board, but her expression became one of concern when an inconsiderate jock nearly mowed Mrs. Snow down. He didn't even stop to apologize and help pick up the cascade of papers that fluttered to the ground in his wake. Mrs. Snow had managed to hold onto the stapler, and she was clutching it to her chest as if it might yet fly away as she stood observing the mess, her face ashen. "Thanks a lot," she murmured, crouching gingerly, uncomfortably, in her skirt and heels.

Hefting the bag onto her shoulder, Joan quickened her pace and knelt to gather several of the fliers.

Mrs. Snow glanced up at her with surprise and gratitude. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, blowing a wisp of hair from her face, only to have it adhere to the beads of moisture at her temple. Her eyes flicked upward to Joan's hairline and she smiled.

"Sure," Joan replied, her attention elsewhere. When she finally looked at Mrs. Snow, she thought maybe God was getting senile. This was the choir lady? But she was so pretty and bright-eyed, not a bit similar to the usual dull and, sorry to say, plain faculty in the music department. She looked better suited for head cheerleader.

"Are you Mrs. Snow?" Joan pointed to the name in swirly rose-colored text on the flier.

"I'm she. But I prefer Ruthie. Mrs. Snow sounds so…" - Ruthie made a face, sticking her tongue out as if she might croak - "old lady. Like I'm my mother-in-law. Mr. Price insisted on it for these." She lowered her voice confidentially. "But he didn't say a thing about what the students actually had to call me."

Ah, another soldier in the upheaval of Price. Maybe God had been right about her being likeable. Joan got to her feet, lending a hand to Ruthie, who seemed determined to avoid a wardrobe malfunction, because she kept a tight hold on the hem of her knee-length skirt and didn't let it budge an inch. She thanked Joan again and tried to straighten out her disheveled papers. Joan noticed she was sporting a pink smiley face sticker on the lapel of her blazer. God was quite the social butterfly this afternoon.

"I see you met Go-" Hearing what was about to come out of her own mouth, Joan tried to backtrack but only succeeded in drawing out the vowel and sounding like she was in a dentist chair having a tooth drilled. "Oooth."

There was a silence, which consisted of Ruthie knitting her brow in wonderment, like she thought maybe Joan was a crazy person or a giant about to squish her.

"Goth boy," Joan blurted, "I see you met Goth boy."

"Huh?"

Joan waggled her finger at the sticker. "The guy with the smileys. Goth boy, I call him that," she said, chuckling nervously.

"Oh him!" Ruthie's confusion vanished, and she laughed too. "Yes, we met. He seemed... lovely. Are you friends?"

"Uhh." Joan started to say no, but decided against that. "We're more like… like-" She stopped, wondering why Ruthie kept eyeing her forehead. Was the zit that bad? Or wait, was the zit, like, falling off? Joan grabbed at the thing that had slid down between her eyebrows and was preparing for descent on the bridge of her nose. She felt like an utter moron when she realized it was God's little practical joke -- the sticker. "Yeah, friends," she muttered, transferring the yellow face to her bag strap. It fell off and stuck to the floor. "Actually, he's the one that was telling me about the choir."

"Were you interested in joining?" Ruthie's smile was hopeful.

"Um, yeah." Joan nodded slowly. "It sounds fun."

"Have you had any previous singing experience?"

"I sing in the shower," Joan said, teasing. "And I played a queen in the school musical last winter."

"Nice."

"Well, okay, a zombie queen."

Ruthie's eyes twinkled, an amused shade of olive green. She rifled through her stack of papers until she found the sign-up sheet, passing it to Joan. "That'll do. Anyone is welcome in choir, even the undead."

Joan fished around in her bag and found a pen, signed the sheet, and gave it back to Ruthie. It might not be so bad, this choir thing, since Ruthie was directing it. She was on the perky side, but in a refreshing, charming sort of way. Grace would probably want to smother her with a pillow; Joan, on the other hand, liked that she could at least make a decent joke, a quality most Arcadia teachers severely lacked. That had to count for something.

"Girardi. You're Helen's girl then," Ruthie commented, reading Joan's name off the short list. "I met her earlier this morning. She said she had a daughter and son here."

"Yeah, school with your mom and your brother: fun-o-rama." But Joan withheld any sarcasm, her mood amiable. Maybe it was all the grinning stickers or maybe the heat had just sent her over the edge -- whatever was responsible, she was in a much healthier frame of mind than before. And she liked it.

"I'll bet. She's great though, your mom," Ruthie said. "And she spoke highly of you. I'm really glad you joined my group."

"Me too," Joan said, and meant it.

This time God had finally gotten a clue, she thought. This time he had finally given her an easy task, something she could handle. Now, if only he would fix the heat, life would be swell.


	2. Coo Coo Ca Choo

**Author's Note: **To the reviewer who asked what season this was set in (thanks for bringing that up—I had planned to explain, then forgot), and anyone else who was wondering, it's a season 3 story. I don't mention any of the stuff about Ryan Hunter, mostly because… well, I just didn't want to write about that. It was building up to be an interesting storyline on the show, I think, but I had other plans for this story. Anyway. I did watch the first season DVDs twice before writing this, so there may be a little bit of first season influence in the early chapters. Also, I'd like to point out that this chapter was originally longer, but I split it into two. And thanks for the reviews, guys. I'm glad you like what I've got so far. Stick with me 'cause there's lots more to come.

* * *

**COO COO CA CHOO**

The Girardi kitchen sparkled in the warm October sunlight, its rich blue and yellow tiles refracting streams of light that bounced from one corner of the room to another like pinballs. The curtains were parted, held fast on either side by delicately braided and tasseled ties, windows open to the earthy-smelling breeze that drifted in with the sound of neighbors' chimes and a barking dog in tow. This was Helen's favorite time of year. The temperature was part of it, though it usually wasn't so humid as today. But there was more: a deep, instinctive zest for life that skirted in on the coattails of the summer months like the burst of energy and health that sick people were said to sometimes experience before death, the symbolic death represented by winter. Maybe that's all dying really was too, another season you had to pass through to reach a blissful, eternal spring.

Helen stood at the island in the kitchen, reveling in the golden glow around her and singing along with the radio as she sliced a mushroom. "_And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know_," she crooned, bobbing her head the slightest bit. "_Coo coo ca choo, Mrs. Robinson, Heaven holds a place for those who pray. Hey, hey, hey..._" Those weren't the right lyrics for that part of the song, but she didn't care. She liked saying the _coo coo ca choo_ line.

Somewhere between hey hey heys, Will had returned home from work and slipped in through the back door. He grinned to himself, a crooked, boyish slant of the lips that squeezed one eye shut more than the other, as he hung back in the breezeway entry and watched his wife rocking her body in slow graceful motions. The song was corny as hell, but as long as it incited Helen to dance in this particular fashion, he could appreciate it. Very much.

"Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Robinson," he called softly, careful not to startle her.

She jumped anyway, but turned to him with a smile, an embarrassed one that lured him over to wrap his arms around her trim waist, lean into her back, kiss her on the neck. God, he loved her smell. He had spent the day drenching the armpits of his button-down work shirt, but she still carried the fragrance of the lotion she applied every night before bed. Lavender and honeysuckle, or whatever. The important part was it smelled delicious. And there was an underlying scent too, one that was all her own. He couldn't articulate its components, that was for the artsy types like her, but he knew he never wanted to live without it.

"You're home early," Helen said, lining up the knife blade and easing it through the mushroom. Part of her was interested to know why, the other just wanted to drive him crazy by being aloof to his flirty greeting.

It must have worked. Will slid his hand to the curve of her hip and squeezed. She was extra ticklish there. "Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me," he asked, laughter in his voice as Helen bucked him away and cried, "Will!"

"I'm trying to make your dinner is what I'm trying to do." Helen had meant to sound irritated, but it came out lilting, girlish instead. She gave in and did her best to channel Anne Bancroft as she said, "I am not trying to seduce you."

They both lost it, entertained with their _Graduate_ role playing, and Will gave Helen a squeeze or two more. Joan chose that moment to come downstairs and walk in on them, her Horny Parents radar on the fritz yet again, and she watched in horror as they snorted and snickered, hands in places she didn't even want to think about.

"Ew, no groping in the kitchen," she admonished, shielding her eyes as if seeing her parents in a compromising position might cause blindness, like staring at an eclipse of the sun. "People have to, like, eat and digest in here, y'know. And Mom. Goofing off with a knife? Shame on you. Why not just run around holding scissors?"

"What're you, her mother?" Will asked, laying the Italian accent on thick. _Mutha_. He winked at Joan.

"Sorry, your father brings out the wild side in me," Helen said, eyes dancing.

And they were at it again. Joan dropped heavily into her usual seat at the table and put her face in her hands. "I need therapy," she muttered over Helen's high-pitched giggles. "So much more than usual."

The fun came to an abrupt end when Helen brought the knife down on her finger, gliding it from nail to knuckle and leaving behind a red line that stung like a god-awful paper cut. "Damn," she said, dropping the knife and instinctively bringing the wound to her mouth, nursing it.

"Are you ok?" Will tugged at Helen's wrist, attempting to get a look at the damage. "Joan, get the Band-Aids," he said. "Let me see, Helen."

"Mom?" Joan was on her feet but waited.

"I'm okay," Helen assured them, relenting her hand to Will. "It's not deep, just stings."

"Band-Aids," Will repeated.

He was holding Helen's hand under the tap, cold water nozzle turned full blast, when Joan returned with two boxes: standard Band-Aids in various sizes and the Looney Tunes prints Joan liked because they made cuts heal faster, she said. Kevin tormented her for it, but she had caught him wearing Bugs Bunny on his elbow once. She would never let him live that down, not even when they were old and forgot who Bugs Bunny was.

"Here." She rattled the boxes at her parents. "Take your pick."

Will grabbed the plain kind while Helen dried off with a paper towel, the sleeve of her plaid shirt damp even though it was rolled up to the middle of her arm. She watched as Will thumbed through the bandages and pulled out the largest one. His thick fingers wouldn't cooperate with the packaging, which he gave up on, finally tearing it open in frustration.

Helen glanced at Joan, at the Band-Aid.

"Let me, Daddy," Joan offered. She worked her thumbnail between the sticky side of the Band-Aid and its backing, peeling them apart easily. She and Helen shared an amused but fond look as Will gently wrapped Helen's finger. There wasn't anymore bleeding; the cut was barely visible.

"See, now this is what happens when we mix porn and cutlery," Joan commented, speaking in the tone of a Kindergarten teacher addressing her students.

"Joan!" It was both of them, Will sternly, Helen with a scandalized expression that failed to hide the twitch at the corners of her mouth.

Joan put her hands up defensively. "I'm just saying."

Will brought Helen's palms to his lips and kissed both of them twice. Then he focused on Joan, slinging his arm around her shoulders in a chummy embrace, tilting her head down to be kissed too. It was hard to believe she could be so tall, his little girl.

"What is with all the love today?" Joan asked, but readily accepted the affection, hugging Will around the middle, her cheek on his shoulder. "It's like everyone's turning into hippies. I'm not moving to a commune."

As if a rewind button had been pressed and the scene revamped a bit, Helen was back to slicing and dicing, and, wanting an answer this time, she reiterated to Will, "Hey, you're home early."

"Yeah, it was a slow day," he said, helping himself to a sliver of mushroom. He offered Joan a bite first, but she shrank further into the nook of his arm and contorted her face in disgust. She contorted even more when she got a whiff of his armpit. "And I wasn't feeling too hot."

"You sure about that, Dad?" Joan asked, sounding stuffed up because she was pinching her nostrils closed.

"What's wrong?" Helen said.

"Nothing. I don't know. I was feeling achy, but I'm fine now."

Joan, still clothespinning her nose shut between the knuckles of her index and middle finger, raised her other hand and held it to Will's forehead. Only sweat. She could have gotten the same result from touching her own head or Helen's.

"Anyway, I hope you don't mind cooking for a few more on Wednesday," Will said, his opinion of a deft change of subject.

Helen gave him the look, the one that meant, _There better be a really good explanation for this._

"I invited the new guy at work, and his family, to dinner. His name's Donovan Snow. Don. Real nice fella. He's got a wife, Annie or Ruth? And two kids. They moved here from New York and don't know anybody yet, so I thought..." He gave Helen his puppy dog eyes.

"Ruthie."

Will and Joan looked at Helen, and Joan said, "_Ruthie_ Ruthie? From school?"

Will appeared lost.

"I already met his wife," Helen explained. "Her name is Ruthie, she's the music teacher at the high school. He didn't mention that?" - and in the same breath - "You talked to her, Joan?"

"Yeah, she's directing this choir thing the school's doing and I signed up. Auditions are tomorrow." Joan plucked at the dish of chopped onions that was sitting on the counter, sprinkling a few morsels into her mouth.

"No," Will said, answering his wife. He opened his mouth for Joan to insert some onion. "Choir?"

"That's weird." Helen used the knife to scrape the mushroom from chopping block to dish.

"Choir's not weird," Joan said, sounding dubious. "At least it shouldn't be with Ruthie in charge."

"I meant it's weird that he didn't tell you his wife works at the school. Didn't you tell him I'm a teacher?"

"Who?" Joan asked. "I didn't talk to her husband. I didn't even know he was a cop."

"I was talking to your father."

Will glanced up from the bowl of diced tomatoes. "What?"

"No, Dad. _'What's on second,' _" Joan said, and laughed.

Helen finally shooed Will and Joan's hands away from the food and pulled the conversation into order. "Will, did you tell Don that I work at the school?"

"I think it came up, yeah."

"And he didn't tell you that Ruthie does too?"

"He might've. I don't remember."

"Ugh," Helen moaned, "Men." She headed for the oven, tipping bowls here, adding spices there, and concocting something in a dish that Will and Joan couldn't identify but knew whatever it was made their stomachs growl and their mouths water. "So, they're coming to dinner Wednesday?" She slid the dish into the oven, nudged the door shut with her foot. "I invited Ruthie today, but she wanted to run it by her husband to see when he'd be free."

"Well, he's free Wednesday."

"Okay then." Helen turned and rested her bottom against the handle of the oven, folded her arms and spoke to Joan. "Isn't she adorable? She has to be less than five feet tall."

Joan nodded, understanding the reference to Ruthie. "I know! And she's four-eleven, I asked her."

"Four-eleven?" Helen said in a loud whisper, as if Ruthie might be hiding behind the counter, ready to jump out and bust her for height discrimination. "Oh my God, she must weigh about ninety-five pounds."

"Ninety-six, I asked her," Joan said, then grinned and rolled her eyes when Helen looked appalled. "I'm kidding. But not about the height."

Will had tuned them out at 'adorable.' He patted Joan on the back and wandered off towards the den.

"Go take a shower before dinner," Helen called.

"Women," he muttered, switching paths and clomping upstairs to the bathroom.


	3. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

**Author's Note:** I don't really have a whole lot to put here, but I did want to say that I know my timeline is off a wee bit: technically _The West Wing_ would be shown on Sunday night rather than Wednesday, since this story would be taking place… well, now (give or take a few days). But let's just pretend the episode that's mentioned is a "special Wednesday night episode." Hee. Also, thanks again for the reviews. I really appreciate hearing from everyone.

* * *

**GUESS WHO'S COMING TO DINNER**

"Mom, they're here," Luke hollered, following up immediately with a retching noise. Joan was seated across from him in the living room, her feet propped up on the coffee table, and nibbling from a mini bag of M&Ms that Helen had bought in bulk a few days ago. Early preparation for Halloween. The moment Luke had opened his mouth to shout, Joan had seized the opportunity, pitching a green candy at the wide-open cavity. She flung her arms in the air - score! – and went on munching as Luke hacked and sputtered the M&M into his palm.

It was Wednesday evening, time for dinner with the Snows. Actually, Will had come home from work yesterday and announced that the heat wave was putting him and Donovan in the mood for a cookout, and might they have one, rather than a big fancy spread? So cookout it was, with steaks, corn on the cob, and iced tea for the grown-ups, hot dogs for the kids, including Joan, whose teeth couldn't manage sinewy meat, and chocolate cake for dessert. Helen barely had to cook a thing because Will insisted grilling was a man's job. Sexist, yes. But it didn't bother her in this situation. Let him handle the meal if he wanted to. She hoped, though, that he wouldn't get anything too done.

"They're here, Will," she called towards the open back door, drying her hands on a dish towel as she bustled into the living room, abandoning the iced tea jug in the kitchen. "Luke, stop eating candy. You'll spoil your appetite." She took the M&M from him as she passed, realizing too late that it was covered in saliva.

"But-" Luke's protest fell flat when he saw that Helen was too busy wiping at her fingers to listen. He ignored the smug, taunting expression on Joan's face as she sneaked the last M&M to her lips and crumpled up the bag, stuffing it in her pocket.

Will arrived as the doorbell rang, and he and Helen answered it together, welcoming the Snows into their home, their greetings at a higher volume than necessary to make up for the fact that they were not well-acquainted with these guests yet. Helen signaled behind her back for Joan and Luke to join in.

"Good to be here, buddy," Donovan Snow was saying when Joan strolled over, his handshake vigorous as he clapped Will on the shoulder.

Not too shabby, Joan thought. Not too shabby at all. Since Monday, after learning of this little dinner soirée, she had been compiling mental images of what Ruthie's family must look like. They would be blond and fair, she assumed, befitting of the last name Snow, and Donovan would be short for a guy, a bit stocky, probably blue-eyed and baby-faced. Wrong on each count. He had dark floppy hair, the kind a woman might describe as "pretty," and lots of it; eyes to match it in color, a deep coffee brown. He resembled a younger, swarthier version of Dennis Quaid. Yeah, Dennis Quaid in a pirate movie. And as Ruthie was to short Donovan was to tall. He measured a good three inches or so higher than Will and had a muscular build, fit and chiseled. He could have been a model for Cop Magazine, if there was such a thing.

And not far behind him was Ruthie, fresh as a daisy in her mint green and white checkered blouse, butterscotch corduroy pants, and tiny white Keds. In the three days that they had known each other, Joan had only seen Ruthie's hair pulled up, but now it hung loose and surprisingly long, framing her face in delicate wispy tendrils. Donovan's thick fingers mingled in the strands at the nape of her neck as he placed his hand there, leading her further into the room for an introduction to Will.

"My wife," Donovan said, traces of pride in those two words. "Ruth Anne." He petted her hair, raked his fingers through it like a comb. "Baby, this is Will Girardi."

"Nice to meet you," Ruthie said, releasing her daughter's hand to shake Will's. "Helen's told me so much about you."

"Same here." Will smiled, noting that neither Helen nor Joan had been exaggerating when they jabbered about how petite Ruthie was, how youthful. The stout little boy she was balancing on her hip looked too heavy, his pudgy legs and scruffy bare feet dangling, ready for landing, as though he knew his weight was cumbersome and could be dropped at any moment. His sister, the one shying away by Ruthie's side, was more fragile, the lighter of the two though older. She had inherited her mother's pixie-like quality and both children had Ruthie's cunning features, but Donovan was in there too, responsible for their mocha-colored eyes and hair.

"Who's this handsome guy?" Will asked, bending nearer to the toddler and, consequently, Ruthie. Playing bashful, the boy lowered his head, nestling into the crook of her neck, peeking at Will through splayed fingers.

"That's Charlie. Don't let him fool you, he's a hellion." Donovan grinned, showing off a set of clean white teeth. "But this one," he added, catching the little girl under the arms and hoisting her up, "is an angel. Tell them your name, Bug."

After a quick survey of the room confirmed that every eye was on her, the girl buried her face against Donovan and held faster than a barnacle.

"June," Ruthie offered, in place of her timid daughter. "She's shy."

"Junie!" Charlie suddenly squealed, bored with his quiet act. He kicked his legs energetically and patted Ruthie's chest. He was ready for attention. "Junie, Junie, Junie, Junie!"

With that as an ice breaker everyone began laughing and talking at once, finishing introductions, Helen fussing over how cute Ruthie's children were, and Charlie finally squirming out of Ruthie's arms and down to the floor, where he danced a little jig and sang, "Junie, Joanie, Joanie, Junie!" after he met Joan. He applauded himself for getting another show of mirth from the adults. And he continued hamming it up until they were seated at the dinner table, opting to bring the cookout in because of drizzle.

"Our oldest boy, Kevin, won't be here till later," Helen said, as she placed a bowl of chips in the last empty spot on the table. "He had to work longer than expected."

"He's the writer?" Donovan asked. He tipped a stream of A1 sauce onto his steak, swirling it with a fork, then coaxed another puddle onto Ruthie's plate before passing along the bottle to Luke.

"Yep." Will gestured at Helen with an ear of corn. "Comes from her side of the family."

"Well, old Charlie here better take after his dad. If he grows up and tells me he wants to sing on Broadway, we're gonna go around." Donovan chuckled, giving Charlie, who was sitting on Ruthie's lap because no one had remembered a highchair, a gentle noogie that made the boy wriggle and laugh. "Gonna be a cop like Daddy, aren't you?"

"I'm a cop," Charlie agreed, jabbing his chubby index finger and raised thumb at Donovan. "Bang, bang!"

"Oh my God, you have to hear Ruthie sing, Mom," Joan announced out of the blue, reminded of it by Donovan's joke. "She sang this song during auditions yesterday— what was it?"

Ruthie ducked her head, resembling June a great deal, but grinned. "'Dream a Little Dream of Me.'"

"It was amazing. I think everybody was scared to try out after that."

"Aww." Ruthie laughed. "But you all were so wonderful."

"Even Joan?" Luke sounded skeptical.

"Especially Joan."

Donovan leaned forward in his seat, gazing around Ruthie at the chair beside her, which June was sitting in, slouched down, her face barely visible above the table. She hadn't touched her hot dog. Charlie was halfway through his, gulping every bite that Ruthie dipped in ketchup and fed to him between nibbles of her own food.

"Eat your hot dog, Junebug."

June straightened, scooting on her rump until she was closer to the table, her curly pigtails bobbing as she moved. She picked up the bun, examined its contents, took a long hard look at the grill marks, and said quietly, "I don't like it."

"You haven't tried it yet, sweetie," Ruthie said, patient, encouraging. "Taste it for Mama? See, Charlie likes it."

June watched as her brother gobbled up his next piece of hot dog, nearly taking Ruthie's finger with it. Not persuasive enough. She scraped at her hot dog's blackened skin, bits of it flaking off, spotting up the bun.

"It looks funny."

"June." Donovan put down his fork.

Helen lifted her iced tea glass but didn't take a sip. She had been through this with the kids when they were five, six, seven years old. Heck, they _still_ turned up their noses at certain foods. Not often. But she knew from experience: kids always win. "I could make her something different."

"Nah, don't trouble yourself," Donovan said. "She'll eat it."

"It's no trouble," Helen said, then consulted June. "You want something else, honey?"

June glanced at her parents, lingering on Ruthie, who smiled, and spoke the first words she had directed to anyone outside of her family since arriving. "Do you have peanut butter and jelly?"

It took some finagling but Helen managed to convince June to accompany her to the kitchen for instruction on the perfect PB & J sandwich, even got the little girl to hold her hand as they went. Of course, the bargain June struck was that Ruthie would come along too, so they waited as she deposited Charlie in Donovan's lap, a change the boy responded to with minimal fussing, and joined them, leaving Joan as the only female in the dinning room who got to hear the punch line to Donovan's crack about how many women it took to make a sandwich. Helen hoped that wasn't as dirty as implied, but judging from Will and Luke's drawn out, rascally "ho ho hos" and Joan's "ew," it probably was.

"He gets a bit wound up when he's with one of the guys," Ruthie said apologetically, as Helen proffered loaves of white and wheat bread, letting June make her selection while sitting on the countertop. "I think he's making up for what he's missed since the move. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Helen laughed it off, undoing the twist-tie on the loaf of white. She rummaged in the drawer for a butter knife, opened the cupboard and reached for the Skippy. "I know how it is. Get Will together with some old friends and a beer, he's the same. And the things Kevin and his teammates used to say..." She curled her lip, caught her tongue between her teeth. The yuck pose. "Boys will be boys, I guess."

"Yeah," Ruthie said. She leaned her elbows on the counter next to June, her hair falling in one long sheet like a veil, its downy tips brushing against the wooden surface. She cupped a hand over June's knee, a silent request for the child to stop banging her foot against the cupboard beneath her.

"Grape or strawberry?"

June pointed to the purple jar Helen was holding. "Grape, please."

"How's your hand?" Ruthie asked, watching as Helen smoothed peanut butter onto a slice of bread.

Honestly, Helen hadn't thought about her run-in with the knife since yesterday when, at lunchtime, she and Ruthie were sitting in Helen's empty classroom talking over salads and bottled water, and Ruthie had expressed concern about the large bandage Helen was wearing. "What happened?" she had asked, her pale green eyes curious, expressive, but of what Helen hadn't been sure. They had gotten a kick out of the story though, Helen telling it with a dramatic flair she knew had rubbed off from Ruthie, but she couldn't help mimicking. It was like that with Ruthie; she got to you, brightened you up, brightened everything up, and before long she had you laughing at some crazy story that normally wouldn't be funny. It was hard for Helen to believe she and Ruthie had known each other but a few days.

"It's better," Helen said. "I don't really need the Band-Aid anymore. I just left it on so no one would have to look at a scab all through dinner."

Ruthie made a face but giggled. "Much obliged."

"Show her your boo-boo, Mama," June said, working her spindly little fingers under the fabric of her mother's three-quarter sleeve, sliding it back to reveal an ugly black smudge of a bruise on Ruthie's otherwise creamy skin.

"Ouch," Helen said, gazing up from the jelly jar she was clanking the butter knife inside of. "Nasty sucker."

"Oh, that," Ruthie said, rising to her full height, studying the bruise like she too had forgotten about a clumsy mishap, then guiding her sleeve into place again. "I had some blood work done at the hospital. I swear, if they ever give me another trainee who doesn't know how to find a vein, I'm going to grab the stupid needle and jam it in myself." She shook her head, crossed her arms. "She must've stuck me five different times."

"Did you complain?"

"Uh-uh." Ruthie tilted her head and smiled. "Too chicken."

"Could you cut the crust off, please?" June looked at Helen, hopeful, and swung her legs out, bringing her Mary Janes back hard against the cupboard door. The noise, the loud smash of wood cracking into wood, startled her and she put her hands down flat on the countertop, gripping the edge tightly. That was the end of that. She reached for Ruthie to help her climb down.

"Ruth Anne, you gonna eat the rest of this steak?" It was Donovan, inquiring from the dining room.

"No, Don," Ruthie called, rolling her eyes in a way Helen recognized, that of a woman with kids _and_ a husband to raise. "It's all yours." She added the last bit in a low, falsely sweet voice that only Helen would hear, a private dig which left them suppressing mischievous grins as they ushered June and her peanut-butter-jelly sandwich into the next room: "Along with the indigestion you'll be whining about later, dear."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Kevin returned home while dessert was being served. It was as if the chocolate cake had summoned him, its invisible aromatic hands slithering out the back door and beckoning to him the way delectable smells did to cartoon characters. He wheeled into the dining room, his nose in the air, sniffing. "Ah, perfect timing," he said, then acknowledged the guests with a friendly wave.

"Who's _dat_?" Charlie asked, globs of ketchup in the corners of his mouth, where no amount of spittle on Ruthie's napkin could remove them. They gave him a clownish appearance, those impossible red stains, his fine, unruly hair adding to the illusion.

"That's Kevin," Joan said, reaching for the plate with her favorite piece of cake on it: the corner piece. More frosting. "He's my big, stinky brother."

Charlie laughed a genuine boy laugh, combining giggles and snorts and various other noises. "Stinky!" he proclaimed, delighted. He clambered down from Ruthie's lap, his roly-poly legs no hindrance as he dodged both his mother and father's grasps and toddled over to inspect Kevin's wheelchair. "Hi, Stinky," he said.

"Hey, Squirt." And just like that, Kevin had a new best friend. They made the rounds together, Charlie having scaled Kevin's knee and plunked himself onto a new, more interesting lap, as Kevin got acquainted with the Snows. Donovan offered to take the boy, or "the leech," as he affectionately referred to his son, but Charlie was having none of it and Kevin, who had a knack with toddlers, one that made Helen smile wistfully, insisted the boy was fine.

"You sure you don't want some cake, Ruthie?" Will said for maybe the third time since he and Helen had started cutting and passing the treat around.

"Will, leave the poor girl alone." Helen gave him a reprimanding frown. If there was one thing her husband had absolutely no comprehension of, it was the reasoning behind a woman refusing sweets. She had learned over the years, during numerous dinner parties, Thanksgivings with his culinary-happy Italian family, and Valentine's Days when he would tote in a gigantic heart-shaped box of candy and a big goofy grin, to give in and have a bite, toss the rest when he wasn't looking. But she wouldn't let him force that, no matter how unwittingly, on Ruthie. "She told you she doesn't want any."

"It looks delicious," Ruthie said in a complimentary way that made it plain she hadn't actually changed her mind. "I'm just so full. Maybe I'll have some of Don's."

"All right." Will did a poor job of hiding his disappointment. He ate his cake quickly, not because of the moistness in its sweet, rich layers, but because he felt uncomfortable enjoying it when Ruthie sat three seats away, an empty cloth placemat in front of her, the chatter between her and Helen keeping her busy while everyone else gorged themselves. He noticed, too, that Ruthie never tasted Donovan's cake. She was svelte enough, in Will's opinion, but he nixed the urge to say as much. _Let it go, Will_, he could hear Helen scolding. So he did.

It was approaching nine o'clock when the last of the plates were cleared from the table and conversation, which had been split into male and female divisions, the men at one end discussing sports, crime rates, the weather, and, courtesy of Luke, science, the women at the other, dishing about school and pretty much everything else, had begun to wind down. Charlie was nodding off against Kevin's chest, thumb in mouth. There was a collective silence which might have segued to Ruthie or Donovan announcing it was time to be heading home if not for Luke, who glanced at his watch and said, "Oh, _The West Wing_ is coming on in a few minutes."

Joan sniffed deridingly. Nobody in the Girardi household but Luke, and sometimes Helen or Will, though they mostly slept through it, watched _The West Wing_. She was about to remind him of that until Ruthie piped in.

"I love that show. Donnie and I watch it every week."

"Really?" Luke's voice rose an octave. Though he had been polite and talkative throughout the evening, this was the first real interest he had shown in Ruthie. "You should--" He sought approval from the adults, his gaze sweeping over them briefly, returning to Ruthie. "You should stay and watch it. Unless you need to go."

Ruthie leaned into the back of her chair and cast an uncertain look at Donovan. "I think I did forget to set it to tape."

"You're welcome to stay," Helen said.

"Fine by me," Will said when Donovan turned to him.

The relocation to the den was harried, Luke providing the countdown in minutes, then seconds, till the all-new ultra important episode of his show, as Joan made a beeline for her favorite spot, the love seat, and Helen assured Ruthie it was okay for her and Don and June to take the sofa. Charlie was out cold, sprawled across Kevin like a plump, domineering cat that had claimed its territory. Once again Donovan offered to remove his son, but Kevin saw no need to disturb the kid. Will and Helen were just settling in as Martin Sheen's voice declared, "Previously on _The West Wing_."

Ruthie was unaware of Luke's strict no-talking-during-_West_-_Wing_ rules and got away with speaking through the entire opening sequence, a feat not many would have achieved in his presence. "I just love that Allison Janney," she was saying to no one in particular. "She's so funny. And tall. I wonder if she'd loan me a few inches."

The only one besides June who didn't seem enthralled by the television screen, Joan was also the only to see Donovan take his arm off the back of the sofa and encircle Ruthie's shoulders, his hand finding her mouth, covering it. "Shhh," he told her, his lips by her ear. "Shh." He nudged her closer against him so that neither of her feet touched the floor when she found a comfortable position, her leg tucked underneath the other. And he kissed her, a fleeting but tender sort of peck on the temple, his hand dropping to rest on her arm, weighty, relaxed. Ruthie caught Joan watching them, and there was that brilliant smile, instantly, like magic.

Joan smiled back, wondering if God would be at school tomorrow to congratulate her on a job well done. She had joined the choir, therefore meeting Ruthie, which more or less played a part in the Snows making friends in an unfamiliar town. It was like killing two birds with a single stone, this one. Help get Ruthie's choir going, help get Ruthie's family going.

Contented, Joan snuggled deeper into the cushiony love seat and tried to pay attention to what the two white-haired guys on television were conversing about. Maybe she would learn something useful.


	4. A Long, Long Way to Go

**A LONG, LONG WAY TO GO**

Joan had been groggy all morning, the alarm clock barely able to rouse her. "That's what you get," Helen said, "for staying up so late last night." But it didn't seem late at the time. _The West Wing_ ended at ten o'clock, Ruthie and her family were gone by a quarter after, and Joan had wanted to stay up to see Johnny Depp on _The Tonight Show_. She hadn't planned on finding a midnight airing of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer _— not the best version, the television series, but the feature film with Luke Perry and the Swanson girl, whom Joan didn't recognize or take to. She preferred Sarah Michelle Gellar's haughty Buffy, the one whose calling placed her in difficult and often embarrassing situations that Joan understood more than anyone could know. And there was always plenty of acerbic wit to spare. Joan felt a kinship with _that_ Buffy.

Somehow though, she had gotten absorbed in the movie, and it had been past 2 A.M. when she finally trudged upstairs to bed. That mistake was coming back to haunt her by lunchtime on Thursday, just as images of wild-eyed, blood-sucking fiends who looked like PeeWee Herman had haunted her in sleep.

"Look alive, Joan," said the lunch lady, placing a Styrofoam bowl of runny mashed potatoes and gravy onto Joan's tray. "You've got choir practice today."

It took Joan's mind slightly longer than usual to register the voice, the face, the manner, each of which shared a suspicious resemblance to Della Reese. God was into classic primetime CBS programming. Fancy that. Too bad the network had long since gone down the tubes. No pun intended.

"Today?" Joan said. "But Ruthie didn't announce who got in yet. How'd you-" She watched Cafeteria Lady God scoop another clump of mashed potatoes into a bowl, smother it in yellow-brownish gook, and pass it to the next person in line. They made eye contact, Joan and God. "Oh right, the omniscient thing."

"Mmm-hmmm," God said, his tough old bird shtick down pat.

"So I got in?" Joan kept her eagerness to a minimum, but the gleam in her eyes would have given her away even if she wasn't talking to Missus Mr. Creator of the Universe. She blocked out the impatient stares from her peers, used to them by now, and reached for a serving of less than fresh Jell-O cubes, stalling.

"You sure did, baby girl. Congratulations."

"Thanks." Joan beamed, surprising herself with her own excitement at the news. She grew serious almost as quickly. "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you? I mean, I got in on my own?"

"You know me, I don't meddle."

"So, Ruthie really thinks I'm good?"

"She does."

Joan paused to absorb that information. It had been flattering to be gushed over by her mother and schoolmates after her singing debut in the zombie musical, but this was different. Anyone who ever watched the audition process on _American Idol_ knew there were oodles of tone deaf freaks out there with family members and friends cheering them on. But Ruthie actually knew about singing, had been educated in it. And from what Joan had heard when Ruthie offered up a sample of her own vocal abilities during auditions, the music teacher's voice astoundingly powerful and rich for someone so small, there was reason to be pleased with her approval.

"Maybe I was wrong about why you're having me do this whole choir thing," Joan said, thinking out loud. "At first I thought it was about Ruthie, but it's sort of about me too. I'm, like, finding my niche, right? Ruthie's here to help me discover my true potential."

"Has it ever been that simple, Joan?"

"It... it could be," Joan said, her balloon of enthusiasm slowly deflating. "Just this once. Pretty please?" She held up her bowl of Jell-O cubes with the frothy white dollop that looked like the shaving gel Will never remembered to rinse out of the bathroom sink, and jiggled them. "With whipped cream on top."

"You're going to have to keep your eyes open for this one," God said, unmoved. "And don't make it all about you. It's Ruthie needs help finding her voice, not you."

Joan laughed. "Are we talking about the same Ruthie? Comes up to about here-" She thrust her palm out, parallel to and just a few inches above the metal bars that served as an expressway for the students' lunch trays while they collected their food. "Blond hair. So happy she makes Pollyanna look like Scrooge. Already sings like an _angel_. That Ruthie?"

"That's the one. But trust me, Sugar, she ain't happy."

"Care to elaborate on that?" Joan said, fully aware from God's tone that their conversation had drawn to a close. When all she received was a glance and a nod that indicated she should get moving down the line, she sighed and said, "Yeah, I didn't think so."

* * *

The list of choir members was posted on the music room door, and it seemed to Joan that every kid in school had followed her example and skipped study hall to have a look. She had decided not to play smug and waltz into Ruthie's class later without having affirmed her right to be there. Sure, God's word was pretty reliable. But Joan was fairly certain that at some point in history he had mentioned something about pride going before a fall, too.

That was why she found herself elbowing her way into the throng of students, the majority of them rejoicing, a few shrugging their shoulders flippantly as they walked away, and four or five, at most, looking downtrodden. Glynis was among the rejected and, thinking back to the girl's screechy and lackluster rendition of "Like a Prayer," Joan could tell that Ruthie had only cut those with the worst of voices. Probably not an easy task though, for someone of Ruthie's sweet, kind-hearted nature.

Joan came across her name promptly, index finger trailing the list and stopping at the G section. Gallant, Gilman, Girardi. She tapped her fingernail against the paper, feeling mighty satisfied until she noticed a name in the F group. Friedman. "You gotta be kidding me," she mumbled. And speak, or read, of the devil. Here he was, sidling up to Joan, all frizzy brown curls and vomit-colored sweater vest.

"I knew she wouldn't be able to resist my raw, animal magnetism," Friedman said, glancing at the list before turning to Joan with a smarmy grin.

"Excuse me?"

"Mrs. Snow." He leaned forward confidingly, his unkempt eyebrows disappearing behind a set of poodlelike bangs. "Ruthie. She told me to call her that."

"She told everybody to call her that, you twit."

"But did you see her face when I sang 'Sea of Love'?" Friedman gripped the straps of his backpack in either hand and rocked on his heels, a boyish motion that might have been cute if he wasn't being so repulsive. "She was ready to jump my bones."

"Uh, no, she was ready to barf. Just as I am now," Joan said. "God, you're such a perv. She's married, not to mention about a million times too good for you. And you're a student."

"That didn't stand in the way of Mary Kay and Vili."

"Who?" It occurred to Joan then that she need not subject herself to anymore of Friedman's highly disturbing comments. Instead of waiting for his reply, she said, "Never mind," and spun in the opposite direction, beating a quick retreat.

"See you at practice!" Friedman called.

* * *

As promised, Friedman was present that afternoon when Joan trekked into the music room and yawned, her hair slipping from its ponytail ring. It had been a taxing day full of dreary lectures, equations that were twice as mind-boggling on a few hours sleep, and more than one teacher singling her out with a stern "Ms. Girardi" when she let her eyelids droop a little too far. But she planned on making the most of this class, despite Friedman. Flopping down at the nearest empty desk, she let her bag slip to the floor and watched as the boy trailed Ruthie, exhibiting yet another of his lapdog tendencies.

"Allow me," he was saying, blocking Ruthie's path as she tried to move the stubborn overhead projector. The uncooperative wheels on the cart righted themselves suddenly and Ruthie didn't have time to stop pushing. The cart lunged at Friedman, knocking him in the shins with a crunch that raised several heads.

"Oh!" Ruthie clapped both hands over her mouth, the tips of her ears going as pink as the flowery headband that nestled snuggly in her flaxen hair. She had worn it down today, and crimpy. "Oh, I'm so sorry, honey. Feldman, is it? Did I hurt you?" She was by Friedman's side, her head level with his shoulder even though he had stooped a bit, regaining his composure after letting slip a kittenish mew sound.

Joan heard snickers from a couple of the girls behind her, but she pressed her lips together and managed to swallow her amusement.

"_Feldman_," someone tittered.

"Friedman," Friedman gasped. "I'm okay. Who needs shins." He righted himself, grunting as he hauled the projector backwards and ran over his own foot.

That did it. The two girls behind Joan erupted in laughter. She turned to get a look at who they were, recognizing the one as Jennifer, a retiring sort who had been on the swim team, and the other as Dorothy, the sax player from band. Joan had known them briefly, their relationships consisting of a handful of "hellos" and sympathetic glances when classes were dull, but they seemed nice. Anybody who recognized what a tool Friedman was was a friend of hers.

"Girls," Ruthie said, as close to scolding as her voice was capable of. She patted the stack of papers that was on her desk, then gestured to Dorothy and Jennifer, beckoning them with a two-fingered wave. "Would you pass these out for me, please?" She added a wink and a "thank you" to the request when the girls shuffled to the front of the room, taking their punishment as lightly as it was given. They went about their task with smiles and Ruthie shook her head, wearing a faint smile of her own as she turned back to Friedman and shooed him to his desk.

When everyone was finally seated Ruthie took her place as well, opting to rest on the ledge of her desk rather than behind it. Ankles crossed, her sandaled feet hung inches above the ground, peeking from beneath the swishy material of her long skirt. It struck Joan again how dissimilar Ruthie was from most teachers, how much cooler. She was even trendy, and not in the pathetic way that most adults were when they tried to be young and fashionable. It worked for Ruthie. Joan was willing to bet the woman still got carded.

"If you'll take a look at the handouts Dorothy and Jennifer passed around," Ruthie said, fanning a slip of paper in the air, "you'll see a list of songs I've picked for us to start with. Now, these are just suggestions. If you've got anything better in mind, feel free to say so."

Joan scanned the titles, recognizing none of them. Oh well, that's what coming to class was for, to learn new things. She tucked her hand under her chin, rested an elbow on the desk.

"Can we do some stuff from _Carousel_?" It was Dorothy. Joan could see the girl's reflection in the window when her gaze listed sideways, a filminess to her vision as she blinked heavily.

"'You'll Never Walk Alone,'" Jennifer said, exuberant.

"Ah, now you're speaking my language."

That was the last thing Joan heard Ruthie say before sleep won out; as her head drifted nearer and nearer towards the surface of her desk, she wondered how in the world God surmised that Ruthie, giddy and effervescent as she was, could be anything but perfectly happy.

"Joan. Yoo-hoo."

The dizzying scent of floral perfume stirred Joan before anything else. Before the hand nudged her again, before her name was repeated. As she gradually reclaimed control of her other senses, she recognized the classroom noises around her— the screech of chairs against floor, the quiet drone of voices, sporadic coughs, a clock ticking up on the wall, a pencil _tap_-_tap_-tapping. Then Joan plunged into reality all at once, sitting up abruptly. Ruthie, who had provided the smelling salts effect with the expensive fragrance generously applied to her slender wrist, drew back in surprise.

"I'm sorry class is interrupting your naptime," she said, her tone lowered enough so the rest of the students wouldn't hear, "but I thought you might like to join us."

Joan looked up at her, bleary-eyed and confused. Without meaning to, she uttered the first thing that came to mind. "He told me to keep my eyes open."

"That would be most helpful," Ruthie said, directing Joan's attention to the semi-circle of chairs everyone had relocated to in the back of the room. "Since we're looking over sheet music." She rubbed Joan's arm affectionately and whispered, "Come on. I saved you a seat by me."

As she followed close behind Ruthie, gawked at enviously by Friedman, Joan fretted that she had blown it, blown her chance to discover what was troubling her teacher. For the rest of the choir session, she was plagued with a short attention span, unable to focus though she tried. She contemplated getting Ruthie alone and simply asking what the problem was, but her growing respect and admiration for the woman made it impossible to do so. It would be like calling Ruthie a liar, to accuse her of not being happy. So Joan decided to wait it out. To keep her eyes peeled like never before. No more sleeping in class. She wanted to get this problem, whatever it may be, solved and out of the way so she could form a normal relationship with Ruthie, one free of God-induced baggage. She hoped it wouldn't take too long.


	5. Spellbound

**SPELLBOUND**

Halloween was days away, nipping at the heels of October like a naughty puppy. The warm front from three weeks prior had virtually disappeared, leaving behind a chilly breeze that snatched the remaining leaves from their branches, the bare tree limbs reaching into the sky like gnarled, scary fingers. God seemed to have vanished also. None of his incarnations had appeared to Joan since their encounter in the cafeteria. It was eerie, this waiting to see him, and Joan didn't enjoy it. To be honest, she missed him. But there was school to keep her occupied, and choir. And Ruthie.

Joan was spending more time with Ruthie than with her own friends. Luke accused her of having a crush on the music teacher, something he never repeated because he had been slapped so hard against the back of his head that his glasses flew off; Grace decided Joan had joined a cult; Friedman taunted Joan for being a suck-up, teacher's pet, meanwhile bugging her for all the goods on Ruthie. And Adam, well, he didn't say much of anything, and Joan was content to do the same. Helen went back and forth between pleased and slightly jealous of the relationship. Jealous because Joan got Ruthie all to herself more often than Helen did, what with joining the choir, practices after school, preparation for the competition between schools in January, and every other excuse Joan had concocted to be in Ruthie's presence. At first it had been strictly business: Joan had a job to do. But the better she got to know Ruthie, the easier it was to forget there was work to be done. They could talk about things. Anything and everything. Joan had even opened up about her breakup with Adam, when, during a one-on-one singing lesson that she had schemed out, they ditched the lesson and spent nearly three hours discussing whatever topic followed the next.

It was no surprise to anyone when Joan announced that she was tagging along with Ruthie, Charlie and June on trick-or-treat night. Will did raise his eyebrows, but Joan explained that Ruthie, self-proclaimed "directionally challenged loser" that she was, still wasn't familiar with her neighborhood. Which happened to be Grace's neighborhood ("Dude, do I look like I know who my neighbors are?" was the response when Joan wanted to know why that fact had never been disclosed by Grace). It seemed to Joan that Donovan was nothing more than a ghost in the Snow household. A workaholic, Ruthie called him, her eyes turned heavenward. So, naturally, Joan had offered to go along and play tour guide. She kept secret just how much she had missed celebrating Halloween the past few years. And she nixed the desire to dress up, a choice she soon regretted.

"Aww, where's your costume?" Ruthie said, partially clad in black witch's attire when she opened her front door. The plain frock she wore dragged across the ground and she only had one sleeve on, the left side of the outfit drooping to reveal a black hoodie and jeans underneath. She was holding a wig of long hair that matched the frock in color. From the waist down she looked like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark; the waist up, a misclothed Barbie.

"This is it," Joan said. "I'm... I'm God."

Ruthie's laughter summoned June and Charlie into the foyer. When he saw Joan, Charlie abandoned walking and proceeded to hop across the floor like a rabbit, though his compact body was tucked inside a bulky lion costume. June kept her distance, turning the toes of her sparkly red shoes inward as she rocked from side to side, her blue and white gingham skirt twirling, a basket with a stuffed dog inside it on her arm. She fingered one of her pigtails, using that as a cover to raise her hand and wave at Joan.

"Somehow I thought God'd be taller," Ruthie said, ushering Joan in out of the nippy air.

"Well, I wanted you to be able to see my face." Joan smiled mischievously. It was a cheap shot, teasing Ruthie for being short, but it had become an ongoing joke between them. Ruthie dished it out just as well as she took it.

"Ooh, ow. Thought you'd be nicer too."

"I tell Him that all the time."

Before that comment could sink in and make the situation awkward, Charlie saved the day by halting at Joan's feet and emitting a fierce roar.

"Not so loud, Boo," Ruthie said. "You're the _Cowardly_ Lion, remember? What does he do?"

Charlie shot upright, ramrod straight, and scurried to hide behind his sister. He peered at Joan from the space under June's arm and the basket handle; he whimpered. June stuck her pinky in her mouth and sucked on it. "I'm Dorothy," she said.

"This must be Toto then." Joan knelt in front of the girl and stroked the toy dog's head. "He's very well-behaved."

June giggled. "He's not real, silly."

"He's not? Well, bust my buttons!" Joan wasn't sure anyone would catch on to her Emerald Palace Doorman impression, but she gave herself kudos for working it in. Watching _The Wizard of Oz_ on television every Christmas for the past sixteen years had paid off. "Love the shoes, by the way," she said, getting to her feet.

"Run get your candy bags," Ruthie said to the kids, then to Joan, "How 'bout helping a witch out, my pretty?" Both sleeves in place, she turned her back to Joan, indicating the hard to reach ties that were meant to fasten the gap in the slippery fabric, and swept her hair into a heap of golden curls at the top of her head.

"Aren't you supposed to be green?" Joan said, starting with the lowest set of strings on the costume, and working up.

"Green isn't my color. Black I can do. But green, no. It makes me look like a leprechaun."

Joan clucked her tongue. Nonsense. With that blond hair and those green eyes, Ruthie would look killer in a deep emerald hue. Or any other color, for that matter. She was even working the Wicked Witch garb, if that was possible. It made Joan chuckle, thinking that, and she finished with an amused sigh, her fingers looping the strings at Ruthie's neck. "Hey, what'd you do," she said suddenly, noticing a harsh red mark on the tender patch of skin there. It bloomed like an August sunburn, the mark, darkening into a burgundy shade before disappearing underneath Ruthie's hoodie.

"Hmm?"

"Your neck." Joan brought her fingertips close to Ruthie's skin but didn't touch it. "It's all red."

Ruthie released her hair, flipping it side to side, a clean, berry aroma wafting from it. She smoothed the front of her costume, pressing out the wrinkles, then faced Joan. "It's dumb, really," she said, her hands fluttering about like busy hummingbirds. She always made good use of them when she talked. "I got a little overzealous with the curling iron. Scorched m'self." She extended her thumb and index finger, the sign language version of the letter L, and positioned them near her forehead. _Loser_.

Joan couldn't help laughing. "Geez. And I thought I was accident prone."

"At least," Ruthie said, attempting to situate the wig on her head, its coarse black strands reaching to her waist, "I never sprained my ankle in the washing machine." She stood akimbo, resembling a teeny Morticia Addams, and gave Joan a devilish look that lasted about two seconds, before turning sugary sweet.

"Touché," Joan said. She picked Ruthie's pointed hat up from the coffee table and placed it over her hand, creating a whirligig, giving it a quick spin. "I can see I'll have to be more selective with what I tell you from now on."

* * *

Forty-five minutes and approximately three pounds of candy later, Joan finally saw him. It had been hard to tell at first with him mingling in the group of children outside the front door of a house someone had gotten carried away decorating. But when he turned, she recognized the kinky auburn hair and oval glasses immediately. Little Girl God. In full Halloween regalia. And of all the things God could have chosen to dress as, he had picked a frog. Two skinny legs clad in bright orange and pink striped leotards poked out from the bulge of green padding that, held up with fuzzy green suspenders, encompassed his body. He waddled instead of walked, his enormous slippers with the buggy-eyed frog faces on them interfering with each step. His bright yellow shirt had a pattern of bejeweled stars that traveled from torso to wrists and he was wearing the headband with the plastic googly eyes that bobbed on springs inches above his head. Joan remembered him wearing that the first time she had met Little Girl God in the park.

God saved Joan the trouble of excusing herself from Ruthie's side; he fell into step with Charlie and June as they charged from stoop to grass, eager to show off the full size Snickers bars they had just received. A surreal, tingly feeling passed through Joan's body and she slid her gaze over to Ruthie, wondering if the woman noticed anything peculiar as the kids approached. If so, there was no indication.

While June and Charlie cried "Mama, look, look!" and danced in circles around Ruthie like haywire carousel animals, Little Girl God stood patiently and nudged at his glasses.

"How's it going, Joan?" he asked when it quieted down.

"Oh, I think you know." Joan shifted, hoping he would get the point and conduct a more private discourse. He didn't. Awfully brazen, this Little Girl God. "Long time, no see. I was beginning to think you forgot about our, uh, arrangement."

"Have I ever." Not a question.

"Unchallenged." Joan felt Ruthie and the little ones watching. She turned to them with a tight-lipped smile. "Guys, this is, umm... uh." Think, Joan, think. "Umm, uh... Amanda." God was looking at her with his Thou-Shalt-Not expression. _What else would you have me do? _she thought at him.

Ruthie crinkled her brow like she was fearful Joan might be having a stroke, but she addressed Little Girl God in a soft, friendly voice that clashed with the evil witch image she was sporting. "Hi there, Amanda. That's a very creative costume you have on."

"Thank you, Ruthie," God said, ignoring Joan, who had snorted because she just saw the irony in him showing up as the only version of himself that wouldn't tower over Ruthie.

"I'm sorry, honey, have I met you before?" Ruthie said, truly perplexed. She cocked her head, the witch hat sloping to one side.

"In a way."

Joan decided to intervene there, while she still had the chance to explain with the truth. And not many details. "We've talked about you. I know her. You came up in conversation," she said to Ruthie.

"Oh." Ruthie mulled over that momentarily and seemed to accept it, though a keenness sparked in her eyes and didn't fade for quite a while. "Well, I hope you only told her good things. Otherwise she might think I'm a witch."

Little Girl God surprised Joan by taking Ruthie by the hand, not in the manner of an innocent child who wanted to hold onto someone, who needed that contact and comfort, but with an earnestness almost exclusively reserved for adults. "I know you've got a beautiful soul, Ruthie. Don't ever question that," he said, brown eyes sincere behind oval lenses.

There was a pregnant silence as they stood together, hands clasped, a transfixed look on Ruthie's face, a fathomless one on God's. Joan found it hard to catch her breath and wondered why she had the overwhelming urge to cry. Both she and Ruthie flinched when Charlie reached the limit on his patience and demanded, "More candy, Mama."

"Okay, Boo. Mama's coming," was the weak reply, Ruthie's concentration elsewhere. "Are you alone, Amanda? You could join us."

"I would like that," God said. He released Ruthie, allowing her to tend to her high-spirited son and the ever watchful June, who had been sucking on her pinky and studying Little Girl God with an intensity absent in most five-year-olds.

"What was that about?" Joan hissed, straggling behind with God while the others moved on to the next house.

"She needed to hear it."

"Directly from you? Must be important."

"Jealousy is a waste of your time, and mine, Joan. You should be thankful for what you have. Don't begrudge Ruthie my love. There's plenty to go around and she needs as much as she can get."

"Wouldn't it be easier if you just told me what it is that's supposedly bothering her?" Joan said, verging on whiny.

"It would be easier for you." God nudged his glasses, his little girl voice matter-of-fact. "But I tend to avoid divulging other people's secrets for them. It would kind of negate my whole freewill plan if I took away the choice to keep things private, don't you think?"

"I guess," Joan said without much conviction. Sometimes freewill just plain sucked, in her opinion. "But what's up with disappearing for three weeks?"

"Miss me?"

"Well... yeah," Joan said, almost whispered. "And I wasn't sure if I was making any progress. I don't feel like I am."

"You've become Ruthie's friend. She trusts you now. That's progress."

"So, I keep being her friend. That's it?"

Little Girl God nodded, antennas wobbling. "The rest will work itself out from there." He fished around in his bag of goodies and procured a half-eaten Reese's cup, nibbling at the corner.

"God's got a sweet tooth?" Joan said, eyeing his loot. She spotted a miniature pack of Sour Patch Kids and grabbed it.

"Candy is one of mankind's better inventions. In moderation." God plodded along as if he didn't notice Joan's thievery. "Ruthie's got a sweet tooth too. She's partial to Krispy Kreme Doughnuts."

Joan sorted through the sour candy pieces, hunting red. "Yeah, I know, she already told me. Are you slipping?"

"No. I thought you could use a reminder."

"Anyway. I've yet to see proof. She weighs, like, two pounds," Joan said, chatty and distracted by the sugar working its way into her bloodstream. She reacted to an especially tart Sour Patch Kid, a yellow, deformed-looking one, by screwing up her features, cheeks sucked in, lips puckered like a fish.

"And another thing, Joan. Your costume?" Little Girl God paused on the sidewalk, his colorful getup perfectly blended with the drawing scrawled in a child's chalk on the cement. He scrutinized Joan's baggy jeans, her paisley top and zip-up cardigan, brown track shoes, and the gray knit cap she had worn to hide her uncooperative bangs as much as keep out the cold. "I would never dress like that."

"Hey!" Joan said. She watched God run ahead to Charlie and June, his bag of candy jostling wildly in the air when he waved.

"That little girl is something else," Ruthie said, as Joan strolled up.

"You have no idea."


	6. God Bless the Broken Road

"Every long lost dream

Led me to where you are

Others who broke my heart

They were like northern stars

Pointing me on my way

Into your loving arms

This much I know is true

That God blessed the broken road

That led me straight to you"

-- Rascal Flatts, "Bless the Broken Road"

* * *

**GOD BLESS THE BROKEN ROAD**

The line at Krispy Kreme was long, but the line at Starbucks was twice as bad. Joan checked her watch for the umpteenth time, jiggled her leg impatiently, and wondered why so many people were buying coffee instead of doing their jobs. The fact that she herself had blown off school today was beside the point. "I'm on a mission from God, okay?" she said when the old man in front of her turned and made an accusatory comment about playing hooky.

Maybe God hadn't come right out and suggested truancy, but he had been keen on the topic of friendship. And what kind of friend would Joan be if she let Ruthie sit at home for the third day in a row, two sick children on her hands, no company to talk to? That would be indecent, Joan reasoned. The Krispy Kreme Doughnuts ad she had seen plastered to a telephone pole near Arcadia High was all the persuasion she needed.

After buying half a dozen field sticks so fresh that the top layer of chocolate didn't have a single crack, gooey crème filling dripping onto the wax paper inside the box, Joan noticed the Starbucks across the street. God hadn't ordained coffee like he had the doughnuts, but she knew Ruthie had a penchant for double lattes with extra foam, the Starbucks cup a fixture on her desk during almost every choir practice, and Joan wasn't opposed to them either. She was, however, very against waiting. Her daydream about flashing an FBI badge and cutting to the front of the line, à la Sandra Bullock in _Miss Congeniality_, had become so vivid that it took the employee behind the counter another "ahem" and finally an impatient "Miss?" to get her attention.

"Oh, sorry," Joan said, moving forward. She set the box of doughnuts on the counter, idly tapped the clear plastic shield on the lid, fiddled with her scarf. "I'll take two... double lattes," she said, surveying the menu out of habit, even though she knew what she wanted, "with extra fo-" Oh my. She stared at the guy she was talking to, getting her first good look at him. She wondered if it was possible to order him in a cup.

He flicked a lock of shaggy black-brown hair off his forehead, smiling. _Welcome to Starbucks, I'm Taylor_, his nametag read. If he used contacts to make his eyes that cornflower shade of blue, they weren't noticeable. "Foam?" he said, seemingly unaware of his hotness.

"Uh-huh." Joan cleared her throat and stood up straight. She tried to think of something casual to say as Taylor punched her order into the cash register, his slender fingers working with rapid expertise. "Nice wristband," she said, hating herself the minute she heard it out loud.

Taylor grinned with one side of his mouth. He made a fist, twisting it back and forth, the strappy leather wristband sliding to the thicker portion of his arm. "You like it, huh?" The latte machine hummed as he flipped the lever, talking over his shoulder at Joan. "Then I'll wear it tonight when I play."

"Play?"

"Guitar. With my band," he said, tossing his hair again. "The Dead Puppies."

Joan took it back. He totally knew he was hot. "Sounds awesome."

"You should come hear us sometime. We usually play every Tuesday night at O'Brien's down on Tenth Street."

Bummer. O'Brien's was a bar. But the fact that he assumed she was old enough to get in a place like that made Joan giddy. She rummaged in her pocket for the seven bucks, leftovers from the fifty dollar bill her grandparents sent in a card on her birthday, and said, "I might just do that."

"Sweet." Taylor pressed the caps into place on the latte tumblers and wedged the drinks into a sectioned cup tray. When Joan held out the money in exchange for her order, he waved his hand dismissively, his voice discreet. "Keep it. Someone pretty as you shouldn't have to pay."

Joan left Starbucks with an armload of calories and a great big smile.

* * *

When the front door to the Snows' house opened, Joan got a glimpse of what Ruthie must look like after a full night in bed. Her blond hair, normally sleek and perfect, the stuff Herbal Essence commercials were made of, was lank, mussed; her eyes, dim with sleep, somehow were larger without the makeup. She wore sporty black pants that pooled on the floor around her ankles, white stripes running parallel on either leg. Her small bare toes were unpolished. Save the pink T-shirt with New York City spelled in bold letters, it was the least colorful Joan had ever seen her. And the most rumpled. But it had an endearing effect, this present look of Ruthie's, like she was an orphan in need of a good home and a healthy meal. Replace the word "healthy" with "fattening," and Joan had the latter part taken care of.

"I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

Ruthie covered her mouth and yawned, nodding. "I guess. I didn't mean to fall back to sleep though." She froze in mid-stretch, shoulder blades pushed back, elbows bent, and appeared panic-stricken. "What time is it?" she said, gripping the doorknob tightly.

"Uh, quarter after nine," Joan said.

"Oh." Ruthie's muscles relaxed, her posture wilting like a plucked flower. "Pfft. I thought maybe I slept the day away." She put her hand in her hair self-consciously and didn't seem able to decide what should come next, the invite or the question, so she gave them simultaneously. "Why aren't you in school?" she said, moving aside for Joan to enter the house.

"I dropped out."

Ruthie shut the door too hard. "What?"

"Yeah, you've inspired me to quit school and pursue a singing career." Joan kept a steady tone and pace, heading directly for the bright, airy kitchen as if she didn't notice Ruthie scurrying along beside her. She set the doughnuts and lattes on the counter and turned to Ruthie, who had gone a touch more peaked.

"Joan."

"Psych. I took the day off," Joan said, sweet as could be.

"Girl," Ruthie said, hand over chest, "Like to give me a heart attack."

The expression was so very country and Ruthie's accent thickened accordingly, as if the particular brand of fear Joan had instilled ruffled the feathers of Ruthie's inner Southern belle. Joan loved that, the way certain emotions and words in Ruthie's vocabulary twanged more than others. Helen would have argued that she was no different. But when it was your own mother, it just wasn't as cool.

"Sorry," Joan laughed, removing the lattes from their carrier. She presented one to Ruthie, jiggling it a teensy bit. "But I figured if I told you that first, you couldn't get mad at me for the truth."

"Which is?"

"I skipped school to spend the day with you. You gotta be bored cooped up in this house." Joan tilted her head, brown hair falling prettily, and tried to look innocent and childlike. It was hard to pull off, since she had to gaze down at Ruthie. "And I brought you breakfast. Wasn't that thoughtful?"

Ruthie hadn't taken the latte yet. She put her hands on her hips. "Joan Girardi, your mother is going to have my hide if she finds out about this."

"Well, see, that's why we don't tell her," Joan said, and traded the lattes for the Krispy Kreme box. She held it below her nose and inhaled deeply. "Mmm. Doughnut?"

"Really, honey, you shouldn't have come."

Joan's enthusiasm sagged along with her shoulders. She lowered the box and spoke seriously this time. "Don't be mad. I wanted to see you, is all. Make sure you're okay, and the kids. My dad said Don told him they had strep throat or something. And besides, my record is spotless this year and I can get today's notes from my friends, so it's not like I'm gonna get expelled." _I hope_, she added, but only to herself. "And school is boring without you there. I have nothing to look forward to all day."

It might have sounded like a load of hooey to anyone else, but Joan really meant it. Ruthie must have known because her eyes glistened as she studied Joan for a moment, showing signs of defeat, then dropped her gaze to the floor, blinking. "I'm not mad," she said, and true to her word, there was a pleasant look on her face when she raised it. "I knew there was a reason you were my favorite student." She sniffled and leaned in for a better view of the doughnuts. "But don't tell Friedman I said so. And are those the kind with the crème center?"

"Yes," Joan said, her light-hearted mood returning. "But please, let us not speak of Friedman around the pastries."

When they were settled in at the table, Joan with half a doughnut already consumed, Ruthie with both hands wrapped around her latte, each sip a slow, luxurious process, they fell into quiet, relaxing conversation. Charlie and June were napping, the previous night's fitful slumber taking its toll, so laughter was kept at minimal volume. It took Ruthie nearly ten minutes of fiddling with the edge of the Krispy Kreme box, peeling back the thin cardboard until the corner was practically in shreds, before she gave in, swooping in like a hawk on its prey, taking that first sumptuous bite of doughnut and rolling her eyes.

"Oh, my Lord," she said, mouth full.

"I know," Joan agreed. "I know."

There was an interval of silence as they polished off their first pastries then groaned about being stuffed until they each took seconds. By the time they finished those, Ruthie looked like she wanted to heave, which was to a tee what Joan felt. They sunk into their chairs, Joan with a hand draped across her belly.

"That," Ruthie said, barely lifting her Starbucks cup from the table, only to set it down as though it were too heavy, "was not a good idea." She put the back of her hand to her mouth and belched. Quite a sound for someone her size, though it didn't faze her a bit, what with being on the verge of a junk food induced coma. "'Scuse me," she said, letting her head loll against the carved backing of the wooden antique chair.

"Holy crap," Joan said, and tried to laugh but stopped because it shook her insides too much. She moaned instead.

Ruthie snickered, humor apparently making her random. "Was that hot guy working the counter when you were in Starbucks," she said. "Tyler or Taylor, or whatever?"

"Yes!" Joan sat up and planted her feet firmly on the slick linoleum floor, which was so shiny you could see your reflection in it. Ruthie kept a spotless and well-decorated house. "Taylor. He gave me the lattes for free because he thought 'someone so pretty shouldn't have to pay,'" Joan said, imitating Taylor's lackadaisical speech.

"Awww," Ruthie said. She sighed. "Taylor, the latte boy. I love him."

Their merriment over the name of Taylor's band The Dead Puppies, which Joan had to repeat three times before Ruthie would stop cackling and accept that it truly was the name he had given, woke June. Stumbling into the kitchen, the little girl cranked a fist in one eye and then the other and said in a gravelly voice, "Mama, could you use your indoor voice, please?"

"Oh, Junie Bear, I'm sorry." Ruthie hurried over to her daughter, sweeping the drowsy little girl into her arms, footie pajamas and all. She kissed June on the tip of the nose once, twice, as they plopped down into the chair together, a snug grip on each other. "How do you feel, baby?" Ruthie murmured, her cheek against June's forehead, testing for a fever.

"Better."

"That's good." Ruthie kissed June again.

"Hi." June waved at Joan.

That was a major improvement compared to the little girl's refusal to speak the first time they met. Joan waved back and gave something a try, saying, "Hi, June Bug."

June grinned around her pinky, which was tucked safely away inside her cheek. Ruthie, her arms encircling the girl's waist, gave June a light squeeze and whispered in that surprised tone adults use when acknowledging a special remark made to their child, "That's what Daddy calls you, _idn't_ it?"

Yes, idn't it. Not isn't.

"I like the name June. Is it after the month?" Joan asked.

Ruthie shook her head. "Don's got an aunt named June. They're very close, so he wanted to name June after her. But..." She gazed down at the part in her daughter's hair, an alabaster line passing through dark, dark brown, then placed her hands over June's ears, mouthing, "I hate that woman." She kissed June quickly on the back of the head, as if for penance, and uncovered her ears. "But I'm a _huge_ June Allyson fan, so I named my baby after her and let Don think whatever the hell he liked."

"Mama," June gasped, "you said a bad word."

Joan had been thinking very much along those same lines. The saltiest expression she had ever heard pass from Ruthie's lips was "Well, crap," and even that had been hushed.

"Sorry, sweetie," Ruthie said. She took one of the remaining doughnuts from the open box in front of her and put it on a plate for June.

"Milk?" June said.

"I'll get it," Joan offered, standing before Ruthie could disturb her cozy posture, June slumped heavily against her.

For a moment Ruthie looked truly stunned. "Wow," she said, "you should skip school and visit me more often."

"That's a strong possibility."

"I'm kidding."

Joan retrieved the gallon of skim milk from the shiny chrome fridge decorated with scribbled artwork and photographs of baby June and baby Charlie, Donovan holding the kids, the kids in their swimsuits, Charlie's little boxers soaked and hanging off his bottom, and another of Don pushing June on a swing. "Who's June Allyson?" she asked, waiting for Ruthie to point to the cupboard that stored drinking glasses.

"Get out of my house," Ruthie deadpanned, then smiled right away because Joan looked uncertain. "You're too easy. She's an actress. Popular in the '40s and '50s. Did a lot of musicals, a few movies with James Stewart and Van Johnson. She's so funny and cute. And little. I think she's something like five feet tall."

"So, she's basically you?"

Ruthie got a kick out of that. "Not exactly," she giggled. "She's good. You'd like her."

"I'll have to check her out," Joan said, putting the jug back and handing June her milk.

"Thank you," June said, her lips smudged with chocolate and crème .

"I have some of her movies. We could watch one," Ruthie said, sounding like she was asking rather than suggesting.

Instead of one they wound up watching two. _Little Women_ came first; not the Winona Ryder and Kirsten Dunst version that Joan was familiar with, but one with a very young Elizabeth Taylor in it, and Joan was intrigued. June Allyson was indeed very cute and funny, as Ruthie had said. And though Joan normally didn't have the patience for black and white films, she was able to sit through something called _Too Young to Kiss_ and find it highly watchable. She laughed out loud with Ruthie and her daughter and eventually Charlie, who wailed from his bed until Ruthie carted him to the living room, where he was surprisingly attentive and behaved for the duration of the movie. Ruthie attributed that small miracle to a wonderful little thing called antibiotics.

It was shortly after the second movie ended and everyone had migrated to the kitchen, Joan and Ruthie's doughnuts and lattes worn off, the kids hungry for lunch, that Donovan came home. His arrival was so unceremonious, so noiseless that no one noticed him standing in the high archway to the kitchen until Charlie banged his fist on the table and announced, "Daddy's home!"

"Daddy's at work, Boo," Ruthie said, licking a dab of mayonnaise off her thumb as she turned away from the counter to distribute the bologna sandwiches her children had requested. The sight of Donovan must have startled her; she gasped, a barely audible intake of breath that Joan only heard because they were near each other. So near that Ruthie bumped into Joan while shifting back a step to say, "Donnie. You scared me to death." Her gaze flickered to the digital clock on the stove, the almost empty Krispy Kreme box, the kids. "What are you doing home?"

Donovan ambled into the kitchen, loosening his tie, jacket draped over his shoulder. There was a definite swagger to his walk, Joan noticed, but it was nothing she hadn't seen before in plenty of her dad's cop friends. Cocky, yes, but reassuring in its confidence from someone whose duty it was to serve and protect others. And if anyone had the right look for a walk like that, it was Donovan.

"I live here, don't I?" he said dryly, but paused to make a silly, cross-eyed face at June and Charlie. He bent and kissed them on their tousled heads as Ruthie served the diagonally sliced, crustless sandwiches, handy individual containers of applesauce, mounds of Animal Crackers, lions and elephants piled one on top the other; all if it laid out on kid-sized divider plates with matching cups filled with red juice. He slung his arm around Ruthie's waist, pulling her close, the Krispy Kreme box she had cleared off the table in her hands, and said, "I think I'm coming down with what the kids've got. I've been feeling lousy all day." He reached for the last doughnut and took a bite from it. "Where'd this come from?"

Ruthie stood on tiptoe to peck Donovan on the chin, then disengaged herself from his touch, easing away to pitch the box in the trash.

"I brought them," Joan said to fill the silence as much as give him reason to acknowledge her presence. "Hi."

"Hello," he said, directing a nod her way. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Joan hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans and tried to shake the awkward feeling that had set in. She wasn't used to Donovan, their dinner together and a brief run-in between the Girardis and the Snows at a restaurant weeks ago the only times she had been around him. She had liked him those times. His sense of humor was a bit off-color, but his obvious affection for his kids was sweet. Now, though, something felt askew, and Joan couldn't pinpoint what. She got the faint impression she wasn't wanted, and Ruthie's avoidance of her sidelong glance did nothing to disprove it.

"I, uh, took the day off," Joan said. She was relieved when the microwave beeped, signaling that the remainder of her latte had finished heating up. She always liked to drink half and reheat the rest later.

"Ah," Donovan said. "Must be nice."

Ruthie dropped a fork in the sink and it clattered loudly. "Did you want something to eat besides the doughnut?" she said, looking for all the world as if she was conversing with the garbage disposal hole.

"No." Donovan wiped his mouth with a napkin from the dispenser on the table, where he had seated himself between the kids.

"Are you sure?" Ruthie said. "There's some chicken salad left. I could-"

"Not hungry, Ruth Anne."

Ruthie didn't say a whole lot after that. Joan hovered nearby, her backside resting against one of the high oak drawers that lined the room. But only so much time could be spent ignoring the round brass knob digging into her spine while she pretended the lid to her Starbucks tumbler was utterly fascinating. "Maybe I should go," she whispered to Ruthie, eyebrows lifted in a questioning manner.

"What for?" Donovan said, playing with one of Charlie's Animal Crackers, dancing it across the messy highchair tray till the boy squealed and giggled. "Stick around. I'd like to hear what you girls were up to today."

"We just... hung out," Joan said, though it was fairly obvious, with Ruthie and the kids still in their pajamas. "Talked. Watched some movies."

"What movies?"

"Uh, _Little Women_. And, oh, what was the other?" Joan looked at Ruthie.

"_Too Young to Kiss_," Ruthie said, drowned out by the faucet, which she turned on to rinse her hands. Of what, Joan didn't know.

"How'd she talk you into watching that tired old junk?" Donovan said, his laugh abrupt, his question aimed at Joan.

"It was good," Joan said, shrugging. She didn't like the way he had phrased that comment, so deprecating, so condescending. Even Kevin didn't scoff at chick flicks with an attitude quite like that. "Hey, you know what? I need to use your restroom and then I think I'll head on home." It wasn't a subtle way to get out of talking to Donovan, but Joan wasn't picky. And she really did have to pee. The latte wasn't helping any.

Ruthie inclined her head towards the hallway and directed, "Last door on the right."

Why Joan didn't place her drink on the counter instead of carrying it over to the table, she wasn't sure, but it was a decision she regretted. As she maneuvered past Donovan's chair, Charlie deemed that moment the perfect one to reach out and grab her arm with his sticky, applesauce-coated fingers. Joan lost her grip on the latte. She gasped as it tipped, a steaming brown waterfall, and dampened the sleeve of Donovan's white shirt.

"Oh, my God! I'm sorry," Joan said as he reacted to the hot liquid, his body going rigid, the chair practically tipping over as he leapt up and shook is arm. "I'm so, so sorry. Are you okay, did I burn you?"

"I'm fine," Donovan said, his voice calm in the midst of the chaos of Joan apologizing, Ruthie scrambling for a dishtowel, and June and Charlie crying like they were the ones whom the latte had been dumped on. He held his arm at an angle, dripping, and peeled the wet shirt away from his skin. "I'm fine. Didn't burn much. But I gotta change out of this." He swung his hand, flicking droplets of moisture in all directions, then hurried from the room with the towel Ruthie had given him pressed over the dark stain.

"I'm sorry," Joan said again, this time to Ruthie, who was already moping latte off the floor with a wad of paper towels.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Ruthie said. "It was an accident." She stood and gave Joan a reassuring but distracted smile, a pat on the arm. "He's a tough guy, he'll live."

"I'm such an idiot," Joan said, helping to situate the chairs that had been knocked awry.

"Don't say that."

While they were still getting things back into order, the kids' sobs reduced to occasional whimpers, Donovan called from somewhere deep in the house, Joan not sure of where, though she guessed it was one of the rear bedrooms. "Ruth Anne, could you come here for a second?" he asked, the distance hollowing out his voice, muffling it.

Joan would have agreed to just about anything right then to make up for her clumsiness. She nodded willingly when Ruthie motioned at June and Charlie, asking, "Would you make sure they stay in here?"

"Mama," June said, but Ruthie was already gone.

A second turned into minutes and soon Joan was bouncing her knees rapidly under the table, desperate for any means of distraction from her screaming bladder. She looked back and forth between June and Charlie. They stared at her, uninterested in their half-eaten plates of food. She tried to dance an Animal Cracker across Charlie's tray, but he sighed and looked away.

"Can you guys do me a _big_ favor and not go anywhere for a minute?" she finally said.

June nodded.

_Last door on the right, last door on the right_; Joan repeated the directions to herself as she wandered quietly down the hall, passing a closed door on the left. She wasn't in the mood to be observant, but she did notice that Ruthie's collection of angel figurines, which dominated much of the shelf space in the living room, also populated the hall, their delicate glass bodies meticulously placed on wooden stands high enough that Charlie couldn't reach. During her first visit to the Snows' house, that night when they went trick-or-treating, Joan had commented on the many figurines. After looking them over for a while, Ruthie had said, "They make me feel safe."

The last door on the right was coming up. Joan would have made it there if not for the sound of Donovan and Ruthie's voices filtering from the bedroom on the opposite side, last door on the left. Slightly open. She paused. From where she stood, she could see the king size bed against one wall, its fluffy white comforter and mountain of pillows giving it an inviting, cloudlike appearance. Ruthie was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet flat on the shaggy white carpet. She looked weary. Donovan had his shirt off and hadn't replaced it with another yet. Too busy pacing.

"You could have combed your hair or at least dressed yourself," he was saying. "Or my kids? You wanna look like shit, fine. But they don't need to. It's almost two in the afternoon, for Christ's sake."

"We didn't have anywhere to go," Ruthie said, looking at her hands that lay in her lap, palms open and motionless, as if she didn't recognize them. "They were up all night, so they slept late. I was tired, too, after sitting with them."

"Well, if you took care of them in the first place, they wouldn't be sick right now," Don said, pausing in front of Ruthie. He raked his fingers through his hair. Started pacing again. "And don't give me that whiny crap about me not helping you with them."

"I didn't say that."

Donovan went on as if he hadn't heard. "I actually have a job and responsibilities. Do you get that? My ass is constantly on the line. I don't get to play around all day with a bunch of stupid kids and bring them home with me when I'm feeling sorry for myself. Christ, Ruth Anne, do you even know how pathetic that is?"

"She came over on her own," Ruthie said, and it sounded indignant but barely. "I didn't know she was planning it, or I would have asked her not to."

"Didn't, didn't, didn't," Donovan mocked in an ugly, humorless way. "Yeah, I bet you didn't. You were probably hoping she'd bring over more than doughnuts, weren't you? Bet you wanted her to bring over that cripple brother of hers. Don't look at me like that. I saw the two of you at that dinner—it was humiliating. Next day Girardi told me he couldn't believe what a slut wife I had."

"Donnie, stop," Ruthie said, faltering as she struggled to hold back tears. They glistened brightly in her eyes as she watched him go back and forth, back and forth. Her hands had balled into tight fists against her thighs, knuckles as white as the bedspread. "Just stop, okay?"

"Oh, you're gonna cry now. Poor thing." Donovan sneered, pausing to stand over her again with the disgusted expression of someone who had just happened on a mangled cat in the road, its guts exposed to the harsh, baking sun. His eyes gleamed but not with sadness. "How many'd you eat?" he said.

"What?" Ruthie wiped at her cheeks and under her nose, gazing up at him. And up, and up. Tear-stained and puzzled, she was frighteningly vulnerable right then, like she might be as breakable as one of the angels she collected. Handle her too roughly and she would shatter.

"Doughnuts. How many did you eat?"

When he didn't get a response Donovan clamped hold of Ruthie's upper arm, his fingers able to wrap completely around it with room to spare, the hollow of his thumb joint going _thwack_ against flesh and bone. She shrank from him, but there was no safety behind her, only empty air and an expanse of bed she would have had to crawl across to get away. It took one sharp tug to get her on her feet, the pillows near the headboard scattering to the floor like they wanted to hide too. Donovan dragged her to the full length mirror beside the dresser, forcing her too close, like he meant to shove her through the glass, then yanking her back from it.

"Donnie!"

"Look at yourself," he said. Loud. Nasty.

Ruthie looked, but she might as well have been staring at a blank wall instead of her own defeated reflection because there was nothing in her eyes to indicate that she saw herself. The woman in the mirror cringed when Donovan brought his knee up, prodding her on the buttocks.

"Your ass doesn't need to get any bigger than it already is. You get fat, I'll divorce you." He pointed at her, matter-of-fact, end of discussion. "But don't get your hopes up. You'd never get the kids."

And just like that, it appeared to be over. The storm clouds passed, the thunder and lightning ceased. Donovan lost interest in his wife and turned to the dresser, rummaging for a shirt in one of many drawers. Ruthie stared through her reflection a little longer, her mistreated arm cradled at her side. She took a shaky breath. "Get, get, get," she muttered, using his previous gibe against him.

Here came the tornado.

As if he had been anticipating that moment, the rest of his insults and manhandling simply foreplay, Donovan pivoted and flung a vicious backhand across Ruthie's face when she made to leave the room. Ruthie hadn't seen it coming - at least not in the visual sense - but Joan had, and the sound of it, the startling crack and the thump of Ruthie's body colliding with the wall, was what brought her back to reality. It had all been like watching some mad disturbing movie up until then. Until she heard what a real slap, not one manufactured by Hollywood, could sound like. Cold and sadistic. And very dead.

Every one of Joan's muscles was taut, urging her to go. _Go. Burst into the room. Yell at __Donovan; yell at him for Kevin, Dad, yourself, Ruthie. Find something to throw. Get Ruthie and the kids out of the house. Do anything but stand and watch._ But her legs wouldn't cooperate and her feet felt welded in place. The only noises coming from her mouth were rapid, shallow gasps for air. She watched.

Ruthie had sunk to the floor and pressed her trembling hands to one eye. Her shoulders quaked as she hunched over, long blond hair mixing with the white carpet. But she was quiet. No uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sobs. That frightened Joan.

Donovan was back to picking out a shirt. "Drama queen," he said after he tossed a blue sweater onto the bed and saw that Ruthie hadn't gotten up yet. He went to her, hoisting her up by the arm he seemed to favor. She looked impossibly small when they were standing together, and it made Joan's stomach turn to see Ruthie flinch and dodge his touch when he tried to examine her injury. Donovan just looked annoyed. He took her wrists and forced her hands down, pinned them there.

Moisture fell in long, continuous rivulets from the corner of Ruthie's eye, which she kept tightly shut, the skin around it irritated and puffy. Donovan's fingertip had caused the damage. Or maybe his knuckle or his ring. It was hard to tell which. He made up for it now by being gentle, tilting her head back, carefully separating her eyelids, the lashes blinking rapidly in defense, to have a look at what he had done. Even from her vantage point, Joan could see the red that had replaced the white in Ruthie's eye.

"You better put something on that," Donovan said. He held her face in his large, powerful hands for a moment so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "I'm gonna take a shower. Tell Joan to go home."

Icy hot terror flooded Joan's chest, her heart giving a frantic kick. But instead of moving towards the hall, Donovan disappeared into the half bath that adjoined the far side of his and Ruthie's bedroom. He shut the door and the room was still. Ruthie hadn't lowered her head from the position he had left it in, chin aimed at ceiling. She closed her eyes, water pouring from the right, tears from the left, and whispered something Joan had to strain to hear.

Ruthie repeated it. "Jesus."

Whether it was meant as a prayer or a petition or if it was the name and nothing more, Joan couldn't tell. But she hoped God had listened.

* * *

It was June who broke the silence. She had crept to the entryway of the hall, peeking around the corner, and called feebly, "Mama?"

Joan stiffened, knowing she would be caught. With the little girl on the one end and Ruthie on the other, there weren't many opportunities to hide. She could have made a dash for the bathroom, but the cowardliness of that option kept her in place. She had already failed Ruthie by standing there like the dimwitted observers you read about in the newspapers, too shocked to move, too out of their element to help someone in need. And she would be damned if she would let Ruthie down like that anymore.

"Mama will be right there, June," Ruthie called back, any trace of hurt absent from her tone though her damp cheeks told a different story. "You stay in the kitchen, okay?"

"Okay." June kept her vigilant eyes trained on Joan briefly, then slipped from view.

When Ruthie emerged from the bedroom, tears gone, nose and eyes and the right side of her face inflamed and swollen, Joan steeled herself for whatever might come. And what did come, after the fear and the surprise wore off, was a lengthy, horribly betrayed look that shamed her to the point of tearfulness. In the month that had passed between them, Ruthie had never shown anything less than approval and love and joy at the sight of Joan. It made Joan ache, this look. "Ruthie," she said but choked on the rest.

"I asked you to stay in the kitchen."

"I... I had to pee." Propriety was the last thing on Joan's mind. "Ruthie," she said again. "My God." She reached out cautiously, acting on the need to touch, to caress, like maybe a gentle hand could undo what Donovan's violent ones had done. Ruthie was still trembling.

"How much did you see?"

"All of it," Joan said. Not entirely true but close enough. What had transpired before she arrived outside the door couldn't have been any worse than what she had witnessed. She hoped. "I heard— he said such awful things. My dad would never call you that, I swear. And your eye." She was crying freely now, and not in the hushed way Ruthie had.

Ruthie peered fretfully down the hall toward the kitchen where her children waited. She took Joan by the hand, guiding her into the dark bathroom and shutting the door. When the light came on, Ruthie blinked several times as if it pained her. She sat Joan on the wooden clothes hamper and plucked one, two, three tissues from the Kleenex box on the back of the toilet. Joan balled them in her hand and watched as Ruthie retrieved a washcloth from the cabinet beneath the sink, wetted the rag under the tap, and pressed it to her own eye. They were speechless for a while, just looking at each other.

"He beats you," Joan finally said. It was stating the obvious, but she needed to hear it. To make sure it was real and hadn't been imagined. Her dad was a cop and she knew the horror stories, had even seen a few crime scene photos of what an angry, abusive husband was capable of. And she knew a handful of people whose lives had been affected by violence, including her mother's. But that had all been an once upon a time and long ago type of violence. Ruthie and Donovan were the here and now.

Ruthie's forehead puckered and she lowered her good eye, the bluntness of that phrase making her grimace. "Yeah," she said. "He does."

Joan's features crumpled in on themselves and she felt a fresh wave of sadness. Leave it to Ruthie to be honest, even about this. "Do you need to go to the hospital? He hit you so hard. I've never-" She was about to say that she had never seen anyone take a slap like that before, but she stopped when she realized Ruthie had probably seen it countless times. And not just seen it. Lived it. Felt it. Joan sobbed.

"I'm all right. I can see. It's just— it's sore, is all."

"Your arm."

"Oh, that I'm used to," Ruthie said, chuckling. It sounded strange and bitter and she stopped. She pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned like she had a migraine.

"That day we went trick-or-treating and your neck was red," Joan said, replaying every single solitary visit, conversation, class, glance they had ever shared, searching for the clues she had overlooked.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to," Ruthie said. She smiled faintly and removed the washcloth, passing it back and forth in her hands. "I wish you hadn't seen or heard any of this. It's not something you need to be worrying about. This is between me and Donovan."

"Ruthie. He looked like he could've killed you."

Ruthie opened her mouth to object. When no words came she reached for the medicine cabinet above the sink and jimmied it open, not turning till the mirrored door was facing out, away from her. She took a bottle of Ibuprofen from the top shelf and jumped when three other plastic bottles plummeted into the sink, rattling like crazed maracas. She tidied up, then grappled with the childproof cap on the Ibuprofen until Joan offered assistance.

"Does he hit June and Charlie?"

Clasping two rust-colored pills in her palm, Ruthie shook her head adamantly. "No," she said with a firmness that was seldom used. "Never." She popped the tablets onto her tongue with a swift move, a practiced move, and flushed them down with a gulp of water from the faucet. Brushing her fingers lightly across the droplets on her chin, she added, "He loves them."

Love and Donovan didn't belong in the same sentence together, as far as Joan was concerned. She scoffed, blowing air out through her nose. She regretted it when she saw the anguish it caused Ruthie, who was back to using the washcloth as a compress.

"You have to leave him. He can't treat you this way," Joan said. "I won't let him."

Fondly, Ruthie cupped a hand to Joan's chin, gazing down, the low seat of the hamper reversing who had the height advantage for once. Joan snuffled, swabbing her cheeks with the tissues. She thought Ruthie was going to agree.

"I can't leave him, Joan. It's not that easy."

_Sure it is. You pack your bags and walk out. Or you get a gun and shoot the bastard before I do._ Joan managed not to say it, instead going with, "Why? Is it because you're afraid of him? Because I can talk to my dad. He'll help you."

"No." There was that firmness again. "I don't want you talking to anybody. Especially not your dad. Promise me you won't, Joan." Ruthie looked desperate and the last word was strained, like it had been entangled in her vocal chords: "Promise?"

"But my dad's a cop, he-"

"So is Don."

The knock on the bathroom door scared them both. But as Joan searched for anything that could be thrown at Donovan should he come charging in, a tiny, uncertain voice outside the door said, "Mama?" It was June. "Mama, I tried to stay in the kitchen, but I feel yucky."

Joan blew her nose hastily and dried her eyes, taking her cue from Ruthie, who had checked her reflection in the mirror and really seen it this time. "Oh, God," Ruthie said, but fluffed at her hair and somehow positioned it over most of the red on her face. Nothing could be done about the bloodshot eye, which must have seemed the lesser of two evils, the compress drawing too much attention and suggestive of pain. She left the washcloth on the sink when she let June in.

"What's wrong, baby?" Ruthie said.

"My tummy hurts," June said. She stood at the threshold of the bathroom, studying her mother's face, then bent over and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor. "I'm sorry," she cried as Ruthie sidestepped the vomit, plucked her up, and repositioned her in front of the toilet.

Ruthie swept her fingers through June's hair, guiding it to safety as the girl retched into the bowl and wailed apologies. "It's okay, shhh. You don't need to be sorry," Ruthie said, stroking the girl's back. To Joan, who was at a loss for what to do, she said, "You should go on home. Thank you for keeping me company today. That was very sweet."

Joan hadn't expected a dismissal. "You can't stay here," she said, incredulous. "Not with him."

A quick shake of the head was all the warning Ruthie need give. _Stop_, it meant. _Not in front of my daughter._ "Go, Joan. Please."

The creak of a door in the bedroom across the hall kept Joan from refusing. She looked helplessly at Ruthie, at June, at the mess seeping into the floorboards. Her body was working against her once more, this time pushing her to move rather than stay still.

"Go!" Ruthie whispered.

Joan went. She hopped the puddle on the floor and breezed past Ruthie's angels in the hall, not stopping. The last thing she heard when she clambered out the front door was Charlie calling from his highchair in the kitchen, "Bye bye, Joanie."

She cried as she sprinted down the road, passing Grace's house and forgetting to stop and bug Rabbi Polanski for his bathroom. She didn't slow down till she reached the bus stop.


	7. Secrets and Lies

**Author's Note:** Hmm… did I scare y'all away with chapter 6? I hope not. 'Cause that would suck. Anyway, here's 7. Enjoy.

* * *

**SECRETS AND LIES**

Joan barely spoke during dinner. News of her absence from school had already been delivered to Helen via Price when, right in the middle of an art class, the principal had sauntered in to gloat about the younger Ms. Girardi's relapse into truancy. The grades were bound to backslide next, he wagered. Helen had been snippy with him, defending her daughter, but the minute she returned home, it was straight to Joan's room for a stern mother-daughter lecture. Or so Helen had thought. She had ended up backing into the hall and easing the door shut after Joan looked up from her wet pillow and confessed readily, said there had been something important she needed to do but to please not ask what, and finished with a plea for privacy. Helen didn't like the sound of that, but she respected her daughter's wishes. For the time being.

Now it was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and creamed corn in the dining room, and everyone was digging in with gusto, except for Joan. She lifted a forkful of Helen's famous lump-free, light-as-a-feather mashed potatoes and let it go _splat_ against the white mush on her plate.

"Maybe we should feed her bread and water," Luke said.

"Shut up, dork," Joan muttered, but her heart wasn't in it. She tore a bite out of her dinner roll and stuck it in her mouth. It felt like sawdust going down.

"See?" Luke said.

Will eyed his daughter and Helen, who shrugged and looked worried. "Rough day, honey?" he said to Joan. He had noticed her watching him off and on this evening. When she was four years old and had stolen a piece of candy from the drugstore, only to come bawling to him and begging for forgiveness, the wrapped Tootsie Roll clutched in her tiny palm, she had spent an hour beforehand watching him with that same expression. Whatever was bothering her now, it couldn't be much harder for him to fix than a shoplifted Tootsie Roll.

Joan swirled her fork in the runny corn. The concern in her father's dark eyes made her want to weep, so she didn't chance meeting his gaze. Her thoughts were consumed by Ruthie and June and Charlie. She imagined them sitting at their dinner table. With Donovan. "I just feel kind of crappy," she said, picking an answer she figured Helen wouldn't read too much into.

"Hope you're not catching that bug that's going around," Will said. "A few of the guys at work have it."

"Yeah, I heard." Joan stabbed her meatloaf.

"How's that?" Will said, but didn't get an answer.

Joan laid her fork down and leaned forward, dropping her hands into her lap. "Daddy," she said. Her forehead was crinkled when she turned to him. She kept hearing Ruthie beseeching her not to tell. She thought of the furious red splotches on that gentle, pretty face. _Promise you won't, Joan_. _Promise_.

"Yes?"

"What do you think of Ruthie?"

Donovan was a psycho, the horrible things he had said twisted, bald-faced lies. But on behalf of Ruthie, Joan needed to ask and hear the answer from her father himself.

"Don's wife?"

Unfortunately. "Mm-hmm."

"I don't know her that well. From what I've seen, she's nice though. Cute." Will added the last part as if he was referring to one of Joan's friends that she would have brought home for a sleepover in fifth grade. "And you and your mom seem to think highly of her."

He didn't mention Donovan, Joan noticed. She looked across the table at Kevin. "What about you?"

"Uhhh. Who are we talking about?" Kevin said.

"Never mind." Joan smiled wanly.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I think of her?" Luke said after there was a pause.

"She watches _The West Wing_, and she said your project for the next Science Fair sounded 'nifty.' You think she walks on water," Joan answered for him.

"Well, that's overstating it a little, but-"

Helen interjected with, "Joan, what's goin' on?" It was a broad inquiry, meant to cover not just Joan's sudden curiosity about the family's opinion of Ruthie, but also the strange behavior she had been displaying all evening. And missing school.

Joan gazed at Helen longingly. Oh, how she wanted to tell. Her mother and Ruthie had become good friends since the Snows' arrival in Arcadia. They palled around on the high school campus whenever possible. At first it had been embarrassing to share a friend with her mom, but Joan had gotten over it. Ruthie made it easy to. And maybe it was a blessing now. Maybe Joan could tell Helen everything and Ruthie wouldn't mind. Or maybe not.

"Nothing, Mom."

"We could beat it out of her," Luke suggested. He smirked, a chunk of meatloaf dripping with ketchup halfway to his lips. He had heard Kevin use that line before, fulfilling the big brother duty of picking on Joan, and he thought it amusing. Really, he just wanted to get Joan's attention. Snap her out of the funk she was in.

It worked. Every dish, glass, and piece of silverware quaked when she slapped her hands against the surface of the table, palms open. The milk in Luke's glass swelled, dangerously close to flooding his plate.

"SHUT UP!" Joan ordered.

"Hey!" Helen said, aghast. She tossed down her napkin, ready to launch into a serious talking-to, but Joan was already up from the table and taking the stairs two at a time.

Joan didn't sleep that night. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Ruthie's body slam into the wall and wither on the floor.

* * *

The buzz about Ruthie spread like wildfire through Arcadia High. Everyone had a theory as to what was the cause of the music teacher's bloodshot eye. It had surprised Joan that Ruthie was even present the day after such an ordeal. But then, who knew how many times she had shown up to teach after being abused by Donovan. It haunted Joan, thinking of that. How many times did she sit next to Ruthie or goof off with her during choir practice and never notice the bruises hidden behind a lock of hair, a pair of long sleeves, the makeup? How could she not have known?

Wandering the halls between classes, she was on the lookout for Ruthie. And for God. He would most likely be using his Cute Guy disguise, the one she had first met him in. He had told her once that it was easier for her to be mad at him when he looked like that. She was ready to test that out.

But God didn't show. And it wasn't until after lunch when Joan was headed to the music room, Grace traipsing alongside her and demanding to know what was up with the Unibomber-ish behavior, that she finally saw Ruthie. What she had expected of this first encounter was unclear to her, but it wasn't to find Ruthie at her desk chatting and laughing with Dorothy and Jennifer, the only two students whose affection for their teacher seemed to rival Joan's. It was as if nothing had happened at all. Ruthie looked lovely and, aside from the crimson squiggles that marred her right eye, completely normal. A bit of concealer on the skin and a vague story about a faulty contact lens had most people fooled. Joan wanted to scream at them like she had screamed at Luke during dinner. But the longer she held onto Ruthie's secret, the deeper she felt it receding inside her. Like light dying. Slipping away into darkness.

"Dude. I heard the science geeks were experimenting with cloning, but did they really need to waste that kind of technology on Barbie's little sister, Skipper?" Grace said, curling her lip as she regarded Ruthie from the doorway. The comment was directed to Joan. Under different circumstances, she would have had a field day taunting Grace for knowing the name of Barbie's sibling. But it was irksome to hear Ruthie talked about that way.

"Get over yourself, G.I. _Jane_. You don't even know her," Joan snapped. "Which is pretty sorry, considering she's your neighbor."

"What the hell is with you, Girardi? Are you like her flunky now, or what?"

"No, I'm her friend. And I know she doesn't need anyone else picking on her, so lay off," Joan said in a harsh whisper.

"Whatever," Grace said, backing down the hall and giving Joan a salute that might as well have been the finger. "She can have you."

"Fine," Joan said, loudly this time.

"Fine."

"Good!" Joan whirled around in the doorway and stormed into the classroom. Her outburst turned several heads, including Ruthie's. As their gazes latched onto each other, Joan tried to smile like she always did when she came to class, but it didn't work. Ruthie had the same problem. They looked away and Joan took her usual seat, front row. She wanted to have a talk but not here, not with everyone around and Dorothy and Jennifer flanking Ruthie, asking if there was anything they could do for her.

"You girls take your seats now," Ruthie said after a moment. She cast a look in Joan's direction for the third or fourth time and nodded subtly when Joan mouthed, _Are you okay?_

If anyone else noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere in class, they didn't show it. But it was all Joan could think about. Ruthie didn't move about the room today. She didn't sidle past, touching Joan on the shoulder. Just as Joan was missing that small sign of affection, someone tapped her on the back and passed her a note while Ruthie wasn't looking.

Joan unfolded the notebook paper quietly and read what appeared to be a poll: _How did she really get the eye? A) Contact lens B) Likes It rough C) Hangover D) All of the above E) None of the above (Fill in your answer)._ It had circulated the room already, the section below the question and answers filled with a row of letters from A through E. Mostly A's, a couple C's, and one extra large B, after which someone whose handwriting looked suspiciously like Friedman's had scrawled "IM me and I'll send photos."

Joan didn't bother reading to see what the comments were after the E choices. Shaking with rage, she stood and faced the rest of the class as she wadded the paper into a tight ball. She made a racket opening one of the windows, chucking the paper as far into the schoolyard as it would go. It vanished among the fallen November leaves. Pausing only to give Ruthie an apologetic look, Joan marched back to her desk and flumped down in her chair. After that, Ruthie's lesson was flustered, but Joan heard very little of it anyway.

* * *

Helen swept the last bits of powdery white grit into the dustpan, and sneezed. Asking the students to make a mold of something they admired had seemed like a grand idea. But she hadn't counted on Sally Upland to plaster of Paris her own head, let alone bring the bust to class and accidentally smash it post-lecture. Too preoccupied with blubbering sobs to help, Sally had dashed off to cry in the girls' room, leaving Helen to clean up the mess.

Fragments deposited in the trash, she was propping the broom and dustpan in the corner when she saw Ruthie pass by the art room. It was unlike the sprightly blonde not to pop in and say hello when the door was hanging wide open. Helen swiped her hands against her pants, coughed at the cloud of dust that arose, and hurried out into the hall. A group of rowdy boys scattered to avoid trampling her and hollered over their shoulders, "Sorry, Mrs. G."

Ruthie was a few paces ahead, weaving in and out of the onslaught of teenagers with impressive ease, reminding Helen of a guppy in a stream of bigger, less agile fish. When Helen called her friend's name, there was a hesitation in Ruthie's step, a reluctance to turn. Probably in a hurry, Helen decided.

"Hi," Ruthie said when Helen caught up. They walked. "I would've stopped in to see you, but I was looking for someone. Your daughter, actually."

"She isn't giving you problems, is she?"

"Joan? Not at all. We just didn't have a chance to talk about something after choir."

The disbelief in Ruthie's voice when she said Joan's name, as if Joan was incapable of any wrongdoing, made Helen smile. "That's funny, 'cause she's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?" Ruthie gazed straight at Helen.

"Whoa. What on earth happened to your eye?" Helen said, stopping and catching Ruthie lightly by the elbow. The long bangs that Ruthie usually had pinned back with a hair barrette were loose today, mingling with her eyelashes. Helen smoothed them back, inspecting. It was a motherly thing to do, she realized, but she couldn't resist it. Maybe it was the fact that, at thirty-one, Ruthie was nearly twenty years her junior, or maybe it was Ruthie's size, her childlike qualities. In either case, Helen felt protective and nurturing when Ruthie was around. And that eye deserved attention.

"I was goofing off with my kids. I bumped it. Had some issues with my contact." Ruthie waved her hand: no big deal. "What about Joan?"

* * *

"Dude, get a load of your mom and Ruthie," Friedman said, almost getting his head smashed in by Joan's locker when she opened it, unaware he was approaching her. Swerving in the nick of time, he clipped his elbow instead. He massaged it as he rounded Joan, appearing on her other side. "That is so hot."

Joan looked up, annoyed at the sound of him. "What are you yammering about?"

"Girl on girl action, three o'clock," Friedman said. He inclined his head in a twitchy way that could have passed for a nervous tic.

Turning, Joan caught sight of her mother and Ruthie standing a dozen lockers down from hers, Helen with a hand on Ruthie's elbow, the other near Ruthie's hair. Joan froze, watching them, trying to decipher what was being said. She slammed her locker and walked towards them, leaving Friedman behind. Helen could be downright relentless when she knew something was out of sorts. And she always knew. Ruthie didn't need that kind of pressure.

"Bitchy move tossing the poll, by the way. I wanted to see how many people went with 'Likes It rough,'" Friedman said, still hovering like a gnat. He nudged Joan suggestively. "You're awful chummy with the choir mistress. Do you know how she likes it?"

Without thinking, without contemplating what she was about to do and in front of whom, Joan snarled, "Shut it, ass," and planted her hand over Friedman's face. She shoved and sent him reeling into a locker door not far from Ruthie.

* * *

"I'm concerned about her," Helen said. "She skipped school yesterday, something she hasn't done in a long time. And she was very... touchy last night and this morning. She won't talk to me. And I know you've been off for a few days, but you two are so close. I thought maybe you'd know what's botherin' her?"

Ruthie took a deep, stuttering breath, like her lungs were having difficulty filling. She averted her eyes. It was an unsettling impression that came over Helen, one that her friend was about to lie to her. A lie was one thing, but a lie about her daughter, especially when Joan was acting so strangely, was quite another.

"Ruthie?"

Whatever had been about to come out got wedged in Ruthie's throat when Friedman sideswiped the lockers with a clang that reverberated to the staircase at the end of the hall.

It was too late for Joan to take it back. But God, she wanted to. Especially when Ruthie started and gripped Helen's hand. Both of them looked at Joan then, Ruthie with alarm, Helen with incredulity, which morphed into anger incredibly fast. Scary how she could do that. Joan had trouble deciding where to focus, her eyes flitting to and fro, but she finally chose Ruthie and said a thin, broken, "I'm sorry."

"You're apologizing to her?" Friedman coughed and held his stomach, though it was his shoulder that had taken the impact.

"All right, young lady," Helen said fiercely, "I don't know _what_ is going on with you, but there is no call for that kind of behavior. I want to see you in my room right now." Emphasis on "right" and "now," that accent put to good use. She turned, expecting Joan to follow, a flock of onlookers parting like the Red Sea to let her pass.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Joan said, eyes swimming with tears. She looked at Ruthie. "I'm really sorry." She held tight to the strap of her book bag and ran in the opposite direction, away from her mother, Ruthie, Friedman, and the crowd of people who thought she was a freak and were probably right. It seemed like she was forever apologizing, forever running. So it felt natural to find herself in the lavatory, basically the same place that had started this whole dilemma.

* * *

Ruthie watched Joan flee. "Helen, may I?" she said, gesturing in that direction before Helen followed. "I've a feeling I know what the problem is."

Helen balked, still questioning that brief, uneasy moment when Ruthie had failed to look her in the eye.

"A conversation of ours upset her, I think. I'd just like the chance to explain. Please?"

Ruthie's sincerity put Helen at ease. "Sure," she relented, figuring she had misinterpreted some signals before. Nothing was getting through to Joan so far, maybe a talk with Ruthie would help. "Go ahead."

While Ruthie went in search of Joan, Helen tended to Friedman.

* * *

Joan had checked under every stall in the bathroom to make sure it was empty, so it surprised her when a door squeaked open. Even more of a surprise was the boy who emerged from the stall. Overcome by panic that she was in the wrong bathroom, it took a second for her to register his face. The thatch of thick brown hair. His tan corduroy coat.

"Defying gender barriers now, are we?" she said to Cute Guy God, her nose stuffy and red, eyelashes moist, clumped together with flecks of paper towel stuck in them. She was past being vain in front of him. No more crush.

"This is how you wanted to see me," God said, and he stood there patiently.

Joan skipped the intro, the part where she synopsized for God, building up to the main point. He didn't need it. He would know this was about Ruthie. "I thought you said you loved her."

"I do."

"You've got a mad bizarre way of showing it. How could you let that" - Joan jabbed her finger at the air, searching for the right word, but there wasn't one strong enough - "that _thing_ treat her like that? And send me over there to make it worse? Yeah, I know you didn't make me go, and you probably didn't want me to skip school, but that's beside the point. You knew I'd do it. And you knew what he'd do to her because of it." She checked her crumbling emotions, fighting them, keeping her voice steady. "You know she was worried about you the night we went trick-or-treating? When you were 'Amanda.' I had to talk her out of walking you home because it was almost dark. _She_ wanted to protect _you_."

"Ruthie's a kind person."

Joan's laugh was mirthless, sharp. "Duh!" She glared at him, waiting for the rest.

Cute Guy God's expression remained neutral as he dug in his pocket, retrieving a ball of some sort. No, not a ball. A wad of paper. When he had unfurled it, smoothing it against his jeans, he held it out to Joan and said, "This is what happens when people don't see the truth. When they're too naive or too afraid to look deeply enough for it."

Joan scanned the paper, her gaze hardening. It was that hateful poll about Ruthie. She crumpled it for the second time, slapping it from palm to palm. "So... what? I had to see Don hit her, otherwise I would be too stupid to figure it out on my own? Okay, fine. But that doughnut trick was really heartless, if you ask me."

"It wasn't about the doughnuts, Joan. And it wasn't about you being there, so you can stop feeling responsible," God said. "Donovan doesn't need an excuse to abuse Ruthie. It's what he does. And Ruthie is adept at hiding it."

"But she's so little," Joan said, eyes glazed over as she looked in the mirror, remembering. "I don't understand how he could hurt her. She can't even fight back. Not against him."

"Donovan's personality feeds on that. It's the darkest kind of anger, what he feels. And the whole point of darkness is to blot out the light." Cute Guy God removed the paper from Joan's hand, squeezing it in his own. "You were right to throw this out," he said. "But there's better ways to deal with this situation than yelling and shoving. Ruthie's got enough of that at home."

Joan watched her feet. "I know."

As Cute Guy God departed, he chucked the balled up paper into the toilet of an open stall. The bowl flushed by itself. "I do care what happens to her, Joan," he said, giving his two finger wave. "That's why I brought her to you."

"Wait. Am I supposed to tell?" Joan said, the door clicking shut on her words, trapping them inside the room for only herself to hear. She listened for the answer, hoping it would come in the form of some knowing, some epiphany that God had left in his wake. That wasn't how these worked, her and God's exchanges, but she was afraid to be wrong. Being wrong put Ruthie at risk. And that was not an option.

When Joan hurried to the door and poked her head into the hall, knowing she wouldn't catch him but needing to at least try, it was Ruthie she saw approaching. God was gone.

"There you are," Ruthie said, throwing her hands up as if she had lighted upon the remote control that had been hidden between the couch cushions for weeks. She trotted towards Joan, smiling. "I thought I'd lost you. I've been this way twice already."

There was a joke in there somewhere, a good-natured ribbing about Ruthie's sense of direction, but Joan let it pass. "I expected my mom to find me," she said, propping the door open so Ruthie could enter.

"I asked her if it'd be all right for me to talk to you first."

"Oh."

Ruthie's attempts at cheeriness dwindled. She looked uncomfortable with her surroundings, all of it—the sickly gray-green paint and battered stalls, bland lighting that flickered and droned overhead like an angry hornet, the faux marble floor, too cold and detached. Not like her bathroom at home with its cordial yellows and greens, scented candles, and cushy bath towels hanging from the shower handle. She put her back to the sink, fingers grasping the ledge of the basin, and began as if she was sifting through a million thoughts, trying to piece together just the right sentence. "Honey, what happened yesterday, what you saw-"

"Don't," Joan said gently, sensing that Ruthie was about to downplay Donovan's behavior, or worse, apologize for it. "You can't make it okay. He hit you."

Water drip-dropped into the sink for several seconds.

"I was going to leave Don once," Ruthie finally said, pronouncing each word softly, carefully, like she wasn't accustomed to speaking them. Like they had long ago been buried, therefore took time to resurface. "It was before the kids were born. God, I must've been about twenty-five." She sighed, letting the years settle in. "That was back when he still asked forgiveness for the things he did."

They had been standing apart. Joan edged closer to Ruthie, ready to comfort. Or perhaps to be comforted. "What happened?" she said.

"Nothing." Ruthie gave a halfhearted shrug. "I lost my nerve. I'd put some things in a suitcase and stashed it under the bed, that way I could grab it easily when I got the chance to leave. But one day I came home and the suitcase was on the bed. It wasn't opened or anything. It was just sitting there. I was afraid of what he'd do, but he never said a word about it." She tried a quick, tactful swipe at her nose with the heel of her palm, then gave in and reached for a paper towel. "He knew he'd won," she said.

"But if that's all he did, why stay?"

"The suitcase was a warning. And a dare. He likes to do that sometimes. Dare me to give him a reason," Ruthie explained patiently, as she would have if she were describing to June and Charlie the inner workings of a fascinating toy. "And I guess the fear of what might happen if I left was worse than the physical abuse itself. Is that stupid?"

Joan shook her head and said, "No," but it was soundless, as if she had been muted. "No," she said again, clearing her throat. So much self-doubt in that question. That Ruthie even asked it bothered Joan, made her want to clobber Donovan for every unkind thing he had ever uttered to his wife.

"Anyway. I stayed. And I'm glad I did." Ruthie was prepared for Joan's confusion, and went on. "I have a daughter and a son. If Don gives me nothing else worthwhile in this life, he at least gave me them." She blew her nose in one short exhale and, eyes brimming with tears, looked up at Joan, whose arm was pressed against hers. "It's funny, really. As hurtful as he is and as miserable as he tries to make me, I have all the joy I need in those two little people that he helped create."

Then, hand over face and composure gone, Ruthie wept. Free of Donovan's disapproving eye and her children's acute hearing, she didn't censor herself. She turned in on Joan, who had offered a soothing embrace, and wetted the younger girl's blouse front, shaking them both with vehement sobs. Joan did what her mother would have done, closing an arm around Ruthie, stroking the long, silken hair that fell, heavy and sweet-smelling, down her back.

"It's okay," Joan said, though it definitely wasn't. Whoever invented sayings for times of grief needed to think up a better phrase than that.

"No, its not," Ruthie said, voice muffled by the gauzy fabric at Joan's chest. "I'm only making things worse dumping my problems on you. I was supposed to be the adult here."

"I could cry too, if you want."

Ruthie laughed and cried, the two so similar it was hard to tell them apart. "Nah. We've both done enough of that lately," she said.

Joan rubbed Ruthie's back in a circular motion, gathering the courage to broach a topic that probably wouldn't be received well. But it was vital. "I don't blame you for being scared, Ruthie," she said, cautious at first, her passion rising with each new word that spilled out, "but you gotta get away from him. You can tell someone how mean he is and he'll go to jail. We should tell my mom, she'd know what to do. And my dad, he'll arrest Don and then you'll be safe. We could do it today. Bring June and Charlie to my house after school, and we'll do it then."

Ruthie had calmed, her breathing level and soft, almost sleepy. She raised her head and looked at Joan, asking, "Sweetie, you love your dad a lot, right?"

"Well, yeah," Joan said, confused. "Of course."

"The same goes for June and Charlie. No matter what Don does to me, he's still their father and they love him. I can't just leave. What I do affects them too."

"But his beating you affects them."

"They don't know he -- they don't know. He doesn't do it in front of them."

"He doesn't have to. Kids know what's going on in their own house, even if their parents hide it, trust me. Maybe Charlie doesn't understand, but I think June does. You saw what it did to her yesterday."

"Stop."

"And they have to see that you're hurt all the time," Joan continued, desperate to get her say in. "When my mom's hurt, that affects me."

Ruthie broke Joan's hold on her and took a step backward. "Stop. I don't want to talk about this. My kids are fine," she said, but it was forced. Her voice cracked on the last syllable. "I appreciate how much you want to help. I really do. But the best thing you can do for me is drop it. I've been with Don for eleven years, I can handle it."

Eleven years. To Joan, that seemed an enormous amount of time. She calculated in her head, subtracting to find her age eleven years ago. Six years old, just a year older than June, just starting first grade. And Ruthie would have been nineteen or twenty, only slightly older than Joan's current age. Picturing Ruthie at nineteen wasn't difficult. She couldn't have changed much, maybe filled out a bit, if her present build could be termed as "filled out." But Joan wondered. What had Ruthie been like before falling into Donovan's hands? And what had she been through in those long, long eleven years that had passed?

"Okay." It came automatically, without Joan even realizing she had opened her mouth.

"Thank you," Ruthie said, hugging herself as if she missed the comfort of Joan's arms. "Now, no more shoving people into lockers, young lady. That clear?"

Joan tried to smile at the playfully gruff reprimand, which was an accurate imitation of Helen, but she felt a pang of sadness when Ruthie's mood changed. "Yeah."

They did a quick makeup check, Ruthie grousing about the lousy quality of the girls' bathroom mirror, and moments later they were in the halls of Arcadia High, mingling with everyone else, putting on a good show. Like nothing had happened, nothing at all.


	8. Lost

**Author's Note: **Thank you for all the lovely reviews. I wanted to add this chapter yesterday, but I didn't have time. I'm on a mondo crazy schedule right now with school and moving to a new house. Sorry if I seem slow to update at times. Anyway, thanks for reading.

* * *

**LOST**

Despite the frigid temperature outside her bedroom window, sweat trickled from Helen's brow onto her pillow and she kicked the covers off. She was dreaming.

She was in a dark room that she didn't recognize. Faint light glowed in the four corners, no source providing it, though it guttered like the flame of a candle and cast frightening, elongated shadows on the walls. Shadows like winged giants who loomed, their features indistinct and smokelike, fading from view and reappearing in other forms, serpentine, demonic. Closer inspection revealed they had faces that twisted and glowered. Each new creature reached and climbed, scaling the walls and hovering overhead. They whispered, a low, ceaseless noise that became a dull hiss.

Ruthie Snow sat in the middle of the room, looking up, observing the action above. Her hands were bound behind her. The strip of tape across her mouth stretched from ear to ear, a black dash against her pale white skin. The chair beneath her was flimsy and splintered, ready to give at any moment. She was humming a song, but the tune varied too much to identify, like a radio dial jumping from one station to the next.

When Helen neared her, Ruthie quieted. She tilted sideways until her hands were visible, giving Helen a glimpse of the cord that trussed them. It was biting into the flesh at Ruthie's wrists, chaffing and drawing blood. Helen moved to untie the bonds, but Ruthie squirmed away and motioned to the corner, index finger pointing frantically.

They hadn't been there before but when Helen followed Ruthie's aim she saw June and Charlie in the lighter section of the room, their backs to the wall. They were bound in the same fashion as Ruthie, with the exception of the blindfolds that covered their eyes. Helen went to them, working hastily to turn them loose. She removed the blindfolds last, her hands lingering on either side of the girl and boy's heads. The ghastly shadows were still hovering. "Don't look," she whispered, first to June and then to Charlie.

The children immediately gazed upwards, their mouths ajar, eyes wide. More awestruck than fearful. They held hands and continued to gape, tripping along as Helen ushered them towards their mother.

Ruthie wasn't so easy to free. The harder the taut, abrasive cord was struggled with, the faster it adhered to her wrists. Helen's cuticles were raw after finally prying the knot apart and unwinding what seemed miles of rope. She let it fall to the ground as she hurried to peel the tape from Ruthie's mouth. It came off stubbornly, with the soft sound of cloth being torn.

"Who did this?" Helen asked, helping Ruthie stand.

Ruthie didn't respond. She turned her eyes towards the ceiling again. The hiss of voices had stopped, but the shadowy figures were there, shifting and watching, their wings jagged outlines on an expanse of gray. Helen thrust her hand out to keep balanced when a distant rumble turned into a jarring boom that shook the floor beneath her.

"Daddy's home," Ruthie said.

"We need to get them out of this place," Helen said, glancing at the spot where June and Charlie had been. They were gone.

Helen took Ruthie by the arm but let go when a searing pain made them both cry out.

"It's too late," Ruthie said. "He's here."

"Who?"

When Ruthie spoke, it was with Joan's voice. "The devil."

Without warning, a pair of hands reached from the darkness and grabbed Ruthie from behind, dragging her away.

Gasping for breath, Helen sat bolt upright in bed, that final startling image so real, so alive in her mind's eye that she switched on the nightstand lamp and expected to see Ruthie being spirited off. By what, Helen had no idea.

"Mm s'matter?" Will mumbled, rolling over. He was asleep before she could answer.

Helen was midway through punching the Snows' number into the cordless phone when she caught sight of the clock by her bedside. 2:15 A.M., in bright, stoplight red. She hesitated on the last four digits, the 0724 that would probably rouse Ruthie from a peaceful night's rest. And there were the children and Donovan to think of. Thumb poised on zero, Helen waited too long. The call went dead and buzzed flatly until she placed the handset in its base.

For a moment she watched Will sleeping and thought about the dream, or more precisely, the nightmare, and what Ruthie had said. Something about the devil. But why had it been so odd? What made it keep echoing in Helen's ears like a vaguely familiar song she couldn't pin a title to?

"Joan," she said suddenly, grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed. She tucked it around her and crept to the door, padding through the darkened hall till she stood outside her daughter's bedroom. She raised her hand to knock, changed her mind, and let herself in.

Splayed on the mattress, pillows everywhere but under her head, Joan was oblivious to the world around her. A twitch in her eyelids journeyed to her foot, which jerked and flopped against the blanket like a fish out of water. She sighed but did not wake.

"Joan?"

Nothing.

Helen debated whether to try again. There was school in the morning, and Joan had been tired and cranky enough the past two days. Better to let her alone. If she had any insight into the dream at all, it would keep till sunrise. It bothered Helen, though, that Joan was even part of something that had felt so ominous, imaginary or not.

Arranging pillows and seating herself on the edge of the bed, Helen studied her daughter's face, its contours, good bone structure and strong, obstinate chin, the latter courtesy of Will, and she marveled at how sleep reversed time so that Joan looked but eight or ten. Or any age less than seventeen. It was the oldest of clichés, Helen knew, but she could see why people likened their sleeping children to angels. And in that instant, she felt such an overwhelming urge to protect Joan, to shield her from all the ills and heartache life could bring, that it didn't seem a bad idea to barricade the girl in her room and keep her safe forever. If only.

"God be with you, my darling," Helen murmured, placing a tender kiss on Joan's forehead. She let her fingers trail over the dark hair that cascaded against the flowered bed sheets, and added, "Always."

As Helen reluctantly prepared to leave, Joan made a breathy sound that was part agitated sigh, part whimper. She shifted, knocking against the headboard. "It was him," she said, words thick with the effort of escaping slumber.

Helen stopped in the doorway.

"She won't tell," Joan said. "He did it."

"Who?" And as she said it, Helen's déjà vu kicked in. She had had this conversation before, in some form or another, hadn't she?

"Don," Joan replied, as if she actually meant to answer the question, though she had slept right through the asking and the telling. More followed but it was unintelligible.

Helen returned to Joan's side and shook her gently. "Wake up, Joan. What did Don do? Joan."

Sleep had a firm grip on Joan, and she wouldn't respond. Helen sighed, delicate worry lines etched in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her thoughts went places she did not want them to go. Dark places she had sectioned off in her mind, like the crime scenes her husband frequented, barrier tape around the perimeter. Places she did everything in her power to avoid. And forget. But as quickly as they materialized, Helen's intuition dismissed those fears. It was more than just a mother's hunch, what she felt. It was a certainty that, along with her dreams or visions or whatever they were, she was learning to trust. No, this wasn't about Joan. This was about Ruthie. And though Helen wasn't sure what "this" entailed, she knew it wouldn't be good.

* * *

Getting information out of Joan wasn't any easier in the morning light.

"You came into my room and watched me sleep? How _Mommie Dearest_ of you," she had said when Helen brought up the subject during breakfast. The rest of the conversation had been a series of inquiries, followed by elusive "I don't knows," until Joan wandered away from the kitchen table to fix herself another Pop Tart, saying, "I was talking in my sleep, Mom. It didn't mean anything."

But she had blanched when Helen described her own dream. The scorched Pop Tart was left uneaten on a plate by the sink, while Joan, having snatched up her book bag, had headed to the door and said, "I think I'll walk today. See you later."

A different strategy would have to be used on Ruthie, Helen decided. Charism and the possibility of one's husband being evil were rather hefty topics for a half hour lunch break or a stroll between classes. If she was going to get Ruthie to confide in her, really confide, Helen knew it would have to be away from the distraction of school and their families, the latter of which seemed to require more and more of Ruthie's time lately.

Opportunity presented itself in the form of Christmas shopping. Will and the kids thought stocking up the month before any holiday was ridiculous, but they were the ones left buying gifts at the very last minute each year, whining about the stores being bare. Helen found a kindred spirit in Ruthie, who called herself an avid shopper and took quite a shine to the idea of a Saturday trip to the Arcadia mall, presents on the agenda. After the initial hemming and hawing, Ruthie finally gave in to the invite, saying yes, she would love to join Helen that weekend. Their plans were almost canceled when, on Friday, Ruthie had called to say no babysitter could be found for June and Charlie. But Joan had saved the day, offering to watch the kids if Ruthie wanted to bring them over the next afternoon.

"I believe you have my daughter wrapped around your little finger," Helen said to Ruthie, while browsing through Waldenbooks, the first place they both wanted to stop after passing a long strip of mall that blared music, every store teeming with adolescents. "She wouldn't give up a Saturday for just anyone. I wish I knew your secret."

"Joan's such a sweetheart," Ruthie said, her smile warm as she flipped idly through the pages of a novel, the name Gregory Maguire on its spine. "But she might quit babysitting forever, after a couple hours with Charlie. He can be a handful." She slid the book back into the gap where it had been. "Then again, he loves his Joanie."

Helen could tell Ruthie wasn't used to leaving her children, at least not for anything other than necessity. Charlie hadn't even glanced up when his mother left; he was too busy following Kevin, aka Stinky, around the house. But June had looked slightly distressed as she waved to Ruthie, while Joan stooped to the girl's level and chatted about all the fun they would have together. And Ruthie had been quiet in the car ride. She was perkier now, though she commented about the children every few minutes, as if saying their names would keep them from forgetting her.

"They'll be fine," Helen said. She remembered Kevin and Joan being June and Charlie's ages once. What a time that had been. "They're adorable kids. Joan thinks so too."

Ruthie beamed. "Thank you."

With their noses turned up at the lurid artwork on either side of them, they kept their visit to the science fiction section, where Helen was looking for a role playing handbook that Luke claimed to be in dire need of, as brief as possible. She made a disgusted face when she found it and showed the gory cover graphics to Ruthie.

"Lovely," Ruthie said, head tilted at an angle, faking admiration. Then she put out her tongue.

"I shouldn't even buy him this," Helen said, but held onto the manual.

The children's books were far more appealing. Ruthie chose several _Berenstain Bears_, all for June, and kept them tucked in the crook of her arm, looking like a schoolgirl on her way to homeroom.

"She started reading at four?" Helen said. "That's impressive."

"I know. She's brilliant." And Ruthie stated it with such earnestness and admiration for her daughter that it was anything but boastful. "I didn't even work with her that much. She picked most of it up on her own. Donnie and I used to read her this series about Rapunzel and Little Red Ridinghood, things like that, and one night she just started reading along with us. We 'bout fell off the bed, we were so surprised."

Helen chuckled. She noted the mention of Donovan but didn't want to pounce on it yet. "Joan's favorite was Snow White. She loved the dwarfs, especially from the cartoon. She used to put on bright red lipstick and her frilly nightgown, then she'd make Luke dress up in a ratty old hat and floppy sweater, and she'd call him Dopey."

"Awww," Ruthie said, placing her hand on her chest. "How sweet."

"Luke didn't think so."

"Poor Luke," they said in tandem, and laughed.

Waldenbooks sacks dangling from their wrists, they moved back into the traffic at the heart of the mall, dropping in on Hallmark so Helen could buy a set of gingerbread scented candles for her mother, and the Disney store, where Ruthie pointed to the plush Dopey dolls that lined the wall, and grinned. They hit GapKids next, Ruthie raving about the outstanding styles there for little ones. "Don't tell anyone," she said, gazing around secretively and lowering her voice, "but I've bought things for myself in here, too."

"That is just wrong," Helen said, amused.

"What? This stuff is cute!" Ruthie grabbed a plum-colored skirt, a girls 12 -14, with intricate gold beading that encircled the hem, and held it in front of her like a shield. "It looks like it could be for a grown-up. And it's half the price."

"I mean it's just wrong that you can fit into it," Helen explained. She reached for the skirt, holding it by the waistband and sizing it to Ruthie. Perfect. "Good God, woman. What size do you normally wear?"

"Umm." Ruthie caught her bottom lip between her teeth and batted her eyelashes. The picture of innocence. "Zero."

Helen clucked her tongue and returned the skirt to its rack. "That's not even a real size."

"Oh, what have you got to complain about," Ruthie said, giving Helen a playful nudge with her hip. "You're tall and gorgeous. You can buy jeans that don't have to be tailored. Your shoes fit. And you've got the most amazing hair I've ever seen. Cry me a river."

Helen fussed with the corkscrew curls that surrounded her face. "You like my hair? You've got this," she said, batting lightly at the blond fluff on Ruthie's shoulder, "and you like mine?"

Ruthie picked up a long, flaxen strand and looked at it. "Eh. This isn't even its natural color. It used to be brown. But not the good brown. The boring kind." She busied herself, straightening a pile of shirts that had been rummaged through and left untidy. She glanced at Helen. "Now, you. You've got the reddish highlights happening, not to mention the fabulous curls. And I love it when you pull it up like that."

Flattered, Helen tried to keep her delight at a modest level. "If you were one of my kids, I'd be asking what it is you wanted from me right about now."

"I'm serious," Ruthie giggled. "I'd give anything to have what you have."

The lighthearted mood evaporated then, replaced with an awkward silence that Ruthie filled by humming along to the bouncy music that played over invisible speakers further within the store. "_Little bitty pretty one_," she sang quietly, twirling a price tag that was attached to a pair of boys khakis. "_Come on and talk to me. Lovely dovey dovey one..._"

"Ruthie."

Helen had to say it again to get a response. Ruthie was crossing back to the girls department, her shopping technique taking her from left to right, frills and ribbons to denims and plaids, as if too much of either gender bored her. She stopped and faced Helen, with a tentative, "Yeah?"

"Is everything all right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I don't mean now. I mean, are things all right with you? At home. Because if there's anything you need to talk about, you can tell me."

Helen had spoken similar words to one of her students from the previous year, a sensitive freshman girl whose artwork was prolific but deeply disturbed. As though she had been waiting for the moment when someone would finally notice her pain, the girl, Emily, had burst into tears, pouring out the story of her mother's death and father's alcoholism like her life depended on it. Helen watched Ruthie, expecting a reaction like Emily's. Or any reaction, period.

Ruthie smiled. "Thanks, but things are good," she said, then pointed at a collection of children's accessories that hung from metal hooks on a display in the aisle. She went to them, selecting a dainty chain belt with pink heart-shaped beads on each link and a butterfly charm attached to one end. She studied the butterfly, cupping it in her palm. "Why do you ask?"

"It's difficult to explain," Helen said, wishing Ruthie would make eye contact. If it had been Joan, Helen could have taken her by the shoulders and forced her to turn, to look, but Ruthie was neither Helen's daughter nor seventeen. "I sometimes have these dreams- visions, maybe. I don't know. I'm still figuring them out. But a couple of nights ago I dreamed about you. June and Charlie were there, and Joan, sort of, but I got the feeling it was you I was there for."

No laughter. Helen pressed on.

"I'm concerned because it seemed like you were in jeopardy. And later on when I tried to talk to Joan about it, she practically ran away from me. That's all she's done this past week, is run off or snap at people." Helen sighed and put her hand over Ruthie's, covering the charm. "I know it has to do with you. And possibly Don. Please be honest with me, Ruthie. I need to know that my daughter hasn't been harmed." She couldn't help it; she placed her finger under Ruthie's chin, gently tilting up. "And you too."

"Nobody hurt Joan," Ruthie said, barely above a whisper. She pressed her lips together when the bottom one quivered.

"But you?"

"I can't, Helen."

"Is it Don? Does he hurt you?" Helen hadn't let go yet. She felt the delicate bones tighten in the snub of a chin, the jaw, as Ruthie bit down hard, teeth clenched together. "That's what really happened to your eye."

"I told you how that happened." Ruthie ran a fingertip over her eyebrow, as if that might take it back, might wipe out what Helen had seen, though the bloodshot had already disappeared, the puffiness healed.

"And the other times?" As she said it, Helen was filled with guilt. She told herself it would have taken anyone a while to put two and two together, to connect every subtle hint, every odd moment when Ruthie had winced at nothing or laid her hand on a chair to ease onto the seat. But there were too many moments falling into place now. Too many for Helen to pretend she hadn't noticed. She thought of the day she had tried to slide a tangle of bracelets off her own wrist and onto Ruthie's, after Ruthie had admired them. Why had she overlooked the way Ruthie wriggled free, sleeve not budging?

"I'm clumsy."

It was such an absurd statement, it almost made Helen laugh. Ruthie's movements were graceful and measured, always, as if each step, turn of the head, or position of the arms had been choreographed in advance. "No, you are not."

"Look, we were having a good time. Let's not ruin it," Ruthie said. She looked relieved when a salesgirl approached, smiling. Before the intrusion came, she added softly, "I'm not a liar."

"Are you ladies finding everything okay?" said the salesgirl, whose nametag was decorated with sequins and shiny stars, _Dawn_ printed in block letters at the center.

"Yes," Ruthie said, nodding amiably, her smile at its usual brilliance. "Thank you."

"No problem. Let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

As Dawn wandered over to a young couple who were oohing and aahing at toddler clothes, Ruthie turned to Helen and held up the pink belt, jiggling it so the beads tinkled. "How adorable is this? June will love it."

* * *

The casual mood never did quite return, though Ruthie did a nice job of keeping up conversation. Whenever Helen became serious, steering towards any topic other than their children or Christmas or gifts, Ruthie would guide them in a new direction. It was amazing what she could find to talk about. Her chatter halted only long enough for Helen's replies, then barreled ahead at full speed. Heaven help the poor soul who stepped in front of that train.

"Oh, looky there," Ruthie said, indicating a metal placard announcing the dates to visit Santa at his mall habitat, near the water fountain outside of Macy's. "'Santa Claus is comin' to town November 20th.' I'll have to remember to bring June and Charlie. Not that I would get June anywhere near him. We waited half an hour to see him last year, but she would not sit on his lap. I don't blame her. Who wants to sit on a stranger's lap, right?

"But Charlie. He loved every minute of it. I don't think the same could be said for Santa, though. Don— I had to pry Charlie off the guy's lap, his little fists pulling out clumps of white beard." She demonstrated with her hands, a cute pantomime of Charlie's attack. "He was literally _eating_ the Santa beard. The guy was like, 'Get him off, get him off!' It was so funny. But I was finding stray hairs in Charlie's mouth for hours afterwards. We called him Kitty for a while after that. 'Cause he had hair balls."

Helen shook her head and allowed herself to laugh. She was uncomfortable with this game of oblivion, but Ruthie's ability to spin a yarn was entertaining. And contagious. "That sounds like something Kevin would have done. He kicked Santa one time. And when I asked him why, he said it was payback for making the elves do all the work."

Ruthie giggled into her hand, eyes dancing.

"Now Luke, he never believed in any of it. When I tried to convince him Santa was real, he just looked at me and said, 'Mommy, you silly.'"

"Nuh-uh."

"Yes," Helen said. "But Joan. She was the worst."

"That sweet thing?"

"Ha! She had me fooled too." Helen paused to sip at the soft drink she had ordered when Ruthie complained of being parched as they happened by an Auntie Anne's pretzel stand. "She was three, and it was going to be her first time meeting Santa. She'd been sick the two Christmases before, always right around the time I'd planned to take her to see him. So we were both excited for this one. I got her all dolled up in the red velvet dress my mother gave her. Handmade. It had a lacy little pinafore with Joan's name embroidered on the front. Red bows in her hair, patent leather shoes, the whole deal. She was supposed to get her picture taken so we could use it for the Christmas cards.

"Never happened. She was fine at first. I sat her on his lap and she bounced those pudgy legs, showed off the crotch of her white tights to about... oh, hundred and fifty people. Then she turned around and got a look at what she was sitting on and _freaked out_."

"Oh, no," Ruthie said, completely absorbed in the story. Like she had been there.

"Yes. Total conniption. I was embarrassed to death. They actually asked me to take her away because she was frightening the other kids." Helen shook her cup, separating the ice. "She didn't stop screaming till I got her to the bathroom. By then, her shoe was off and wouldn't go back on. Her hair was a mess. I think we lost the bows. She was pitiful."

Ruthie jutted her lip out, in a sympathetic pout.

"So, I figured I'd make it up to her by getting her an ice cream cone. That rainbow bubble gum flavored stuff she loved. Guess what happened?"

"What?" Ruthie said, but gasped and answered herself. "The dress."

"Right down the front," Helen said, nodding and sweeping a hand down her torso, shopping bags rustling. "I never did get the pinafore clean." She shrugged her shoulders. "That was the end of mall Santas for me. And nobody argued."

"Well, shoot," Ruthie said, sounding vexed. "I was going to ask if you wanted to take June and Charlie to meet him. While I got my hair done."

"Keep dreamin', honey bun."

Ruthie swung her Suncoast bag, the plastic DVD cases inside, which housed movies for Donovan and an _Elmo's World_ for Charlie, clattering against the back of Helen's leg.

They kept the banter going as they exited the mall and stowed their purchases in the trunk of Helen's car. With the added distraction of the radio, Ruthie had exactly what she needed to keep unwanted subjects at bay the whole drive home. If the conversation lulled, she sang. And there wasn't a song the deejays could play that she did not have in her repertoire.

The station was set to country music, Ruthie's favorite after show tunes, and a genre Helen only listened to if her family was absent, when Helen said, "You're really amazing, you know that? I'm surprised you're not on the radio. You've got more talent than all these people." She gestured to the audio system in the dashboard.

Astonished, Ruthie let her mouth fall open. She turned the volume knob up a notch. "Are you kidding me? Do you know who this is? This is Reba McEntire." She pointed twice as she said it, emphasizing the first and last name with the tip of her finger. "They don't come more talented than her. But thank you."

"You're welcome," Helen chuckled.

"I thought about being a singer," Ruthie said, after a pensive silence. She gazed at something, or maybe nothing, outside her window, while Reba McEntire's voice sassed and growled through the tale of a girl called Fancy. "But you know how life goes."

Merging with the end of the previous tune, another song began, the male vocalist crooning with a mellow twang, an almost feminine sound. Ruthie joined him, quietly tapping her long fingernails against the door panel her arm rested on, and singing, "_If you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely, to watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon._"

* * *

Before the key left the lock on the front door of the Girardi house, Helen and Ruthie were greeted by June, who glanced up from the living room floor where she sat blowing bubbles, coloring books and crayons littered about her, and announced "Mama, we lost Charlie."

Right on cue, Joan came thundering down the stairway, her hair wild and clothing disheveled, as if she had been subject to a windstorm. "Charlie! Come out, come out, wherever you are," she hollered, bounding off the final step. Her body froze in a track-and-field stance when she saw her mother and Ruthie standing in the doorway. "Char-"

Ruthie's expression wavered between amusement and mild concern. "You lost my son?" she asked, eyebrows arched bemusedly, head cocked to the side.

Helen put her hands on her hips. "We left you alone for three hours."

"He's not lost!" Joan rose to her full height, defensive. She tugged at the bottom of her shirt and brushed a hand through her hair. "We were playing hide and seek. And he's just a very, very good hider."

"Nope." Tiny plastic wand poised near her lips, June puckered and blew a stream of shiny bubbles into the air. She returned the dripping wand to its bottle and added, "She lost him."

"Snitch," Joan muttered, but kindly. "It was your job to watch him and tell me where he went."

"I'm not the baby-sitter," June said. More bubbles. "And that's cheating."

"Oh, if you don't cheat, how come you found me every single time, Miss Smarty Pants?"

"You don't play very good."

"Joan!" Helen said.

"June?" Ruthie said.

"What?" "Yes, Mama?" Joan and June gazed at their mothers, innocence personified. It struck Helen that the girls resembled sisters, brown-eyed and dark-haired, lively color in their cheeks, fractious glints in their eyes, as if they had already been quarreling for a while. And enjoying it immensely.

"Focus," Helen said. "The boy. Ruthie arrived with two children, I'm sure she'd appreciate leaving that way too."

"I'm just trying to decide what happened to this one is." Ruthie motioned at June. Any trace of timidity gone, the little girl had sauntered over, a trail of bubbles floating behind her, and was busy making faces at Joan, who had started the competition by sticking out her tongue. Both girls' mouths were bright red, a telltale sign that they had raided the freezer and found Luke's stash of popsicles hidden behind the ice cube trays and bags of mixed vegetables. "You broke her," Ruthie said to Joan.

"See, this is why I don't baby-sit," Joan said, scooping June into her arms. They were comfortable with each other, June's thin legs trapping Joan around the waist, her head resting against Joan's shoulder. "That is, unless the kids are extremely special."

"Like me?" June said.

"Yeah." Joan patted the little girl's bottom. "Just like you, Junie Bear."

"Sorry to interrupt the Lifetime moment, ladies, but I thought you might be looking for this guy," Kevin said from the dining room entrance. He gave his wheelchair an abrupt spin, much to Charlie's delight, the toddler screeching and clapping as they whirled. When the revolution was complete, Charlie made a daredevil leap off of Kevin's lap, surprising only Helen, who gasped, and fell to his hands and knees, dizzy. He was back on his feet before anyone moved. He ran to Ruthie, shinnying up her body in a monkeylike fashion.

"I _hided_ _wif_ Stinky, Mama," he cried proudly.

"You did?" Ruthie said, her voice matching the enthusiasm of her son's. "What a smart boy!"

"He was with you the whole time?" Joan demanded, turning on Kevin.

Kevin shrugged and lifted his hands, palms up, blameless. "We were in the den. He was keeping me company. I figured you'd find him after a while." He drummed the armrests of his chair, somehow creating a mocking beat. "Guess not."

"Dork," Joan said.

"Dork," June repeated.

The girls shared a high-five while their mothers exchanged scandalized then apologetic looks.

"Great, now there's two of them," Kevin said, retreating. He waved good-bye to Ruthie and Charlie. "Sorry, little man," he told the boy, "too much estrogen in here for me."

"Seriously." Ruthie came closer to her daughter and Joan, peering at June like five years worth of memories had just been erased. She gave June a light poke to the ribs. "Where did my sweet bashful angel girl go to? I don't think I've ever seen this child before." She hefted Charlie further up her hip, adding, "Have you, Boo?"

Charlie tossed his head, exaggerating a nod. "_Dat's_ Junie."

"Now really, Mama," June said dryly, taking Ruthie by the shoulder to deliver the grave news, "you know it's me. You're not tricking anybody."

For twenty minutes Helen apologized for the ruination of Ruthie's children, especially that of June, who spent the entire time back-talking with Joan, the two of them giggling at their own naughty behavior. There was no need to be sorry, Ruthie said. And when she had concealed the presents in the trunk, gathered June and Charlie into the car, along with their toys, the pictures they had colored for her, a jumbo jug of bubble solution Joan had scrounged under the kitchen sink for - "We've had it since I was twelve," she said - and the rest of the goodies they had collected, Ruthie thanked Helen and Joan profusely. Then she hugged them and thanked them some more.

"Y'all take care," she called, half in the car, half out. "See you Monday."

Joan and Helen stood on the front stoop and waved as Ruthie pulled away, she and June returning the gesture, Charlie craning to see out the back window, only his shock of dark hair visible.

"She's so sweet," Joan said, snaking an arm around Helen's back and leaning into her.

"Yeah," Helen agreed, taking advantage of the moment, squeezing Joan tight. "She sure is."

* * *

Will propped himself up on his elbows and watched his wife slip into her camisole and pajama bottoms. She let the elastic waistband snap against her abdomen, then retrieved the bottle of moisturizer from atop their bureau and sat down next to him on the bed.

"She actually told you he abuses her?"

Helen rubbed a dry spot near her elbow, working the lotion in. "Not in so many words," she said slowly, her gaze elsewhere, someplace far away. "But you weren't there, Will. You didn't see her face. She was terrified. I said his name and she tensed up like I was about to hit her. I've never seen her look like that."

Will scratched his chin thoughtfully. He sighed and mussed his hair. "I dunno, Helen. Don doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd beat his wife. He's a good cop."

"Doesn't make him a good husband. And how well do you really know him?"

"How well do you know Ruthie?"

Clearly not the best choice of words, Will realized when Helen fixed him with a fierce glare and pumped an excessive amount of lotion onto her palm. "I'm just saying, it's possible you're wrong," he added quickly. But that was a mistake too. Why had he not fallen asleep the minute his head hit the pillow?

"I'm not wrong."

"Happens once in a blue moon, I know," he said, reaching for her, stroking her slick skin and getting his fingers slapped for it. He wiped them on the bedspread. "But honey, I can't just accuse a man of beating his wife and have him arrested. Even if your Spidey senses are tingling. If Ruthie's not willing to cooperate-"

"Don't blame it on her."

Will groaned and flumped against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. He made a gesture of surrender, his hands raised above his shoulders and pressed flat, knuckles to mattress. "Okay, I'll try talking to him Monday. See what I come up with."

Helen set the lotion bottle on her nightstand and settled in beside her husband, his outstretched arm fitting perfectly into the niche of her neck and shoulder. "Good," she said, "'Cause if you don't, I will." She kissed him lightly, murmuring, "Will."

"Don would rue that day."

"You bet he would."

He held her close that night, and he thought of Donovan and Ruthie. It didn't matter how long he had been on the Force, how many domestic violence calls he answered; he would never understand how a man could deliberately hurt his own wife. And though such cases were always uncalled-for, whether or not the victim was large or small, it disturbed him to think of a strapping guy like Donovan Snow taking his frustrations out on Ruthie, who, if Will remembered correctly, was no bigger than a minute. He had witnessed Donovan subduing a perp or two. _Wouldn't wanna be on the receiving end of that_, one of the fellows on the squad had commented. And Will had agreed, chuckling. _Mean cuss, ain't he?_, they had said.

Will listened to the sweet sound of Helen's breath as it made the transition to sleep, thinning out and barely tickling his cheek. He hoped she was wrong.


	9. Sunday

**Author's Note:** I probably shouldn't do this, but I'm going to go ahead and address something posted in one of the reviews. I prefer letting the story speak for itself, but I just feel the need to clarify this— Isis, Joan's not ditching her friends. I don't think it's unlike her to get wrapped up in someone new, especially someone like Ruthie whom she admires. She was very into Judith at the start of season 2, to the point of kind of overlooking other people, if I remember correctly. Then she lost Judith. And Adam pretty much destroyed their relationship, at least the closeness of it (I don't see how she would feel the need to spend all that much time with him anymore…?). And Grace has Luke. Joan would be searching for someone new to fill those gaps. Plus, Ruthie is Joan's "responsibility" right now (not that that's her only reason for spending time with Ruthie) and Joan is caught up in a huge dilemma. I purposefully kept her apart from Grace somewhat in this story, for reasons of my own, but I didn't do it to stray from reality or the show— I think Joan would be very upset and moody, and Grace happened to be the one that got vented on. I won't say anymore about that though, because it is covered later. Anyway, I spent way more time on this note than I planned. As always, thank you for the reviews!

* * *

**SUNDAY**

Ruthie Snow turned from side to side, scrutinizing her appearance in the full-length mirror across from the bed where her husband was gently snoring. She had already spent thirty minutes preening in front of the bathroom mirror, but that was hair and makeup time. Now it was on to the outfit. God probably didn't put much stock into such things, but it was a habit of hers, dressing up for church, left over from childhood, when her mother had primped and curled and beribboned her as if she were a doll and taken her to every Sunday morning sermon to be fawned upon by the congregation, which was most of the town.

That torch had been passed to June, who could draw a crowd just by wearing lacy socks, though she didn't bask in the attention like Ruthie had. Still, it didn't hurt to look nice.

She was fastening the last of the buttons on her white cashmere jacket, the top half to a smart little suit that included a calf-length pleated skirt, also white, when she noticed how quiet the room had gotten. "Good morning," she said without turning. She could see Donovan's reflection watching her in the smooth, spotless glass.

"Morning," he said, rubbing his eyes. He sat up and glanced at the digital clock, then leaned back against his single pillow, all he ever slept with though Ruthie had two or three she could have spared, and put his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked.

She looked at the clock too, wondering if she should have woken him. But no, he liked to sleep in on Sundays. It was unusual for him to be awake by ten, when she would be shuffling the kids into the car, making sure they didn't get themselves too dirty, and heading for the 10:30 service, let alone by 9:15 A.M.

"You're up early," she said, scooping a pair of sapphire earrings from the jewelry box on the dresser. She listed to one side, letting her hair fall away, first on the left and then on the right, as she placed a tiny stud in each earlobe.

"Uh-huh," he said, yawning. He kept his gaze trained on her every move.

She slipped into her white heels with the robin's egg blue trim and managed to ignore him until their eyes met in the mirror again. She took hold of her skirt in either hand and tugged down slightly, expecting that to be the problem. It didn't matter the length; her skirts were always too short, always too revealing. She had given up wearing anything above the knee. You couldn't hide bruises under a mini skirt anyway.

When that didn't dissuade him, Ruthie finally faced his direction. "What?" she asked, smoothing the pleats on her thighs. She spread her hands and waited: just tell me, please.

"I got time to take a shower?"

She stared at him, confused. "You have somewhere to be?"

"You're going to church, aren't you?"

"Yes?" she said. "Yes."

"Mind if I come?"

Ruthie studied Donovan carefully, the way he had done to her. She tried to read what was going on behind those dark, dark eyes, but it had never worked before and it still wasn't working now.

"It's Baptist," she said, and hated how uncertain and like a child she sounded. Donovan had been raised Catholic and, though he no longer practiced that faith, his disdain for her beliefs seemed limitless. _Sure, take the kids, they like fairy stories_, he would say. _But don't try cramming that shit down my throat_.

"That's okay." He tossed the covers aside and stretched, his bare chest extended, stomach puffed out above his plaid boxers. He smiled as he passed her and walked towards the bathroom. "Starts at ten thirty, right? I'll be ready in twenty minutes."

And in twenty minutes, true to his word, Donovan emerged from the bedroom, his sleek hair in thick, wet curlicues that a blow dryer couldn't improve upon. He owned a suit, but he had opted for his dressiest black sweater and trousers, a pair of shiny black loafers on his feet. He looked polished yet casual. Exactly right for church.

June and Charlie gazed at him in wonderment when he peeked into Charlie's bedroom, where Ruthie was crouching by the boy, tucking his shirt into the knickers she loved to dress him in. She stood when Charlie waved his bow tie and said, "Daddy looks pretty like Mama."

"Boys are handsome, not pretty," June corrected, but left it at that, her eyes straying from Ruthie to Donovan and back again.

"You look nice, Donnie," Ruthie said, acknowledging his entrance. And she meant it. If there was one thing he never failed to be, it was good-looking. That had seemed important when she was nineteen years old and all her girlfriends had said she was insane if she didn't say yes to a date with Donovan Snow. Then, of course, they had despised her for winning his favor when he could have had any girl on campus but didn't want them. Just Ruthie. Back then it made her feel lucky, special.

"Pretty Daddy, pretty Daddy," Charlie sang, escaping Ruthie's grasp and charging at Donovan, who caught him with a grunt and flipped him upside down, held at shoulder level, the boy's feet clad only in socks and pedaling wildly in the air.

"The menfolk have to look their best when they've got two such gorgeous girls to escort," Donovan said, jouncing Charlie a bit. "Right, Son?"

Charlie screamed and kicked and laughed.

"You'll have him wound up," Ruthie said gently, Charlie's shoes, like miniature replicas of what a grown man would wear, in her hands. The bow tie was on the floor and would probably stay there, she reckoned.

Donovan stooped forward until Charlie's body bent also, fat feet aimed at the carpet. When Donovan let go, the boy landed like a gymnast dismounting the parallel bars, then dropped onto the cushion of his Pull-Ups. He was extra difficult to potty train, this boy, but Ruthie was making progress. It had been a cinch with June.

"Again!" Charlie cried, and Ruthie was relieved when Donovan overlooked the request and knelt beside her, taking the shoes without yanking on them. He captured one of Charlie's flailing legs and dragged the boy closer, getting both shoes into place and double-knotted in the time it would have taken her to tie one set of laces.

"Again, Daddy."

As if he hadn't heard, Donovan stood and said, "What's for breakfast?"

"We already ate," Ruthie said. "I didn't know you'd be getting up, so..." She glanced at her clean white sleeve and shrugged. "I'll make you something."

"Never mind. I'll have some cereal," he said. He touched her hair, but barely, his fingers just grazing the waves that framed her face. "No sense in you getting those cute little hands dirty."

Whether or not that had been a dig, Ruthie couldn't tell. It probably wasn't. There was no mistaking them when they came. She watched him head for the kitchen, Charlie at his heels, demanding another bout of roughhousing. She and June were alone in the room, a space which left no doubt that it belonged to a boy. Dark blue walls, sports emblems of Donovan's favorite teams, which would unquestionably be Charlie's favorites, and the racecar border Ruthie had put up to match the racecar curtains. And toys galore but nothing too cuddly, other than the teddy bear dressed as a policeman. Stuffed animals were for sissies, after all.

"Why's Daddy coming with us?" June said, looking up from her seat on Charlie's toy chest. Sitting there in her pale pink dress with the full skirt and rosettes on the bodice, her hair in long Shirley Temple curls that bobbed even when she didn't move, she looked like a misplaced china doll. Like something a careless little girl might take from a high shelf without permission and leave behind at her friend's house.

Ruthie held her hand out for June to take. "I don't know, darlin'." She tried to think of a better answer to give her daughter. But she couldn't find one.

* * *

The carpeting in the church was red. Not in the foyer, but in the main sanctuary. A broad stretch of crimson red under every pew, straight up to the pulpit, so that wherever you stepped it appeared you were walking on blood. And that was the purpose, Ruthie had learned on her first visit, when, as if he had seen the question in her eyes, even six rows back, the pastor had given a sermon about the blood of Christ and gestured to the floor. An idea of the building's founders, laying that shade where everyone could see. A reminder of the sacrifice He had made.

Ruthie didn't like the carpet. But she liked the church and the people in it, and that had kept her returning for the past three weeks. She was nervous now, with Donovan there. Not of what he would do; he seldom made a scene in public, at least not for others to hear. It was everyone else that concerned her. If the wrong thing was said by the chatty old lady who smiled and patted her hand each Sunday, or if any man or boy over the age of twelve looked at her for too long, too kindly, that would end it. Until she stopped going to church, it would be: What kinda lies you tell her, Ruth Anne? How many times've you screwed him, Ruth Anne? He better than me? Come on, I wanna know.

"God-awful color," Donovan said of the carpet, snapping her into reality. She nodded and led June into the back pew he had selected, giving him the side near the aisle.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to Sunday school?" Ruthie asked June, for the third time. "You had so much fun last week, remember? You made Mama that beautiful rainbow painting, and you and Charlie ate cookies. And I bet the little girl you played with will be there today. What was her name? Dakota? She and Charlie will miss you."

"I don't want to."

It had surprised Ruthie, and pleased her, when June had asked to be dropped off in the nursery the previous week so she could attend Sunday school with her brother. It was a big step for the little girl, who was already missing what would have been her first year of Kindergarten because she had cried and pleaded through an entire month of classes, begging Ruthie not to force her to go, until Ruthie couldn't stand it anymore and asked Donovan if they might postpone school till June turned six, till after the move. She reasoned that June was already smarter than most five-year-olds, and it was true. You'll make her weak, Donovan had said. But he had relented.

"You might get bored just sitting here," Ruthie tried, though she knew the blank sheets of paper and box of Crayolas that June had brought from the car would be enough to entertain the girl for hours. "And you didn't get to show off your pretty dress. Why don't you let me walk you downstairs before the song service starts?"

"Christ, Ruth Anne," Donovan muttered, dropping his hand down on Ruthie's, which covered her knee. "Let it go."

Perhaps it was her surroundings that made her bold—the big cross at the head of the church, the stained-glass windows that cast kaleidoscope colors on Donovan's face when she turned to him. "You're the one who's worried about her being weak," she said, voice low enough that June wouldn't overhear.

He reacted with a brief flick of the eyebrows, a la-di-da expression, as if he was amused. She looked away, focusing on June.

"Maybe next week, Mama," June said sweetly.

Ruthie smiled and used her index finger to bat one of the girl's errant ringlets. "'kay," she said, then reached under the mop of curls and stroked her nails lightly against June's neck, tickling. June giggled soundlessly, scrunching her shoulder up to her ear. She waggled a lavender crayon at Ruthie, pretending to scold.

After the fifth person in a row had come by to greet her, be introduced to her husband, and fuss over her daughter, Ruthie felt the dull beginnings of a headache that pulsed in her temples and deep in her eye sockets, making them throb. Mascara smears were unsightly so she resisted the urge to rub. She wished she had stayed home this morning, even though Donovan's only comment was a tame, rhetorical, "Aren't you popular."

She relaxed when the band started to play and the pews filled. For as long as she could remember, music had soothed her. At age eight, when her father had left home and the sound of muffled sobs filtered into her bedroom night after night, Ruthie would creep through the darkness to her mother's room, slip into bed beside the shuddering form, and sing until quiet came. Safe, peaceful, pitch-black quiet. And then later, the first time Donovan had ever hit her, not just shoved or grabbed but really hit her, in the car on the way to dinner at his parents' house, she had discovered that thinking of the words to her favorite songs made the tears dry faster. It didn't do much for the pain. That had to go away on its own.

And now. It wasn't in her to be vindictive or smug, but she stood with the rest of the congregation and felt a little satisfaction when Donovan hesitantly rose to his feet, not looking so tall at that moment. Good as he was at everything else, he couldn't carry a tune to save his life. It embarrassed him. Sometimes, out of the blue, when Ruthie would be setting dishes in the cupboard and humming to herself or drying off from a shower, the best place to sing, he would say to her, "I have a nice speaking voice, don't I? You'd think that would count with singing too." Sure, Donnie, you'd think it would.

Ruthie sang a tad louder than necessary and didn't bother with the hymnal Donovan leafed through frantically. She already knew these songs by heart. She caught him watching her during a soft, worshipful moment when the music hushed and she opened her eyes, her hands raised heavenward. For once, his face was wide open and expressive of something other than anger. It looked like marvel, what she glimpsed right before he returned to the hymn on the page. It snatched her breath away, and she sat down while the pastor was in the middle of his introductory prayer to the sermon. Donovan fidgeted and quickly took his seat also, after the collective "amen."

"Turn with me to Ephesians five, verse twenty-five."

Ruthie reached for her Bible. As she did, having to tug it from between her hip and June's, they were so close together, she noticed the drawing in the little girl's lap. Always fascinated by the creativity her daughter possessed, she studied the picture, taking in the whimsically shaped flowers, the red grass under pink sky, a backdrop to the crooked house by which four oddly proportioned figures, one large and three small, were gathered and being rained upon. Two of the squiggly people were frowning, the arced lines of their mouths extending far outside of their circular heads, which were adorned with a shock of yellow on one, scribbled black on the other—the biggest of the group. The two with brown hair had no faces at all. And when Ruthie looked closer she realized it wasn't raindrops that were pouring from the sky. A fifth figure hovered above the house, sharp flaps like knife blades protruding from its back, a golden oval over its round head, and big blue dots spilling from its doleful eyes, each dot darker than the last and gritty, as if the crayon had been pressed down hard.

Neatening up her supplies, June paused like she sensed the effect her artwork had had. She gazed fearfully at Ruthie, then used a fistful of crayons to scribble thick, manic lines across the entire drawing. Too late.

Ruthie thrust her Bible at Donovan, book, chapter and verse forgotten. She thought she might need to leave, and she almost did. Where she would go didn't matter. Outside, maybe. To the bathroom. Anyplace where she could bawl, scream, kick, vomit, beat the hell out of something with her fists, even if it was a solid brick wall. Anyplace but next to him.

Or better yet. She could stay. Stand up on the pew maybe, and announce to the whole of First Baptist Church of Arcadia, including God, that Donovan Snow was a wife beater. That he punched so hard he created his own stars, more glorious than the ones in the heavens. That he could make things fly, too, picture frames and books and plates and fists, without giving them wings. That he spoke and oceans were formed, full of tears cried by his wife and his son and his daughter. That his presence could knock you flat, put you on your knees, make you beg for mercy. And, oh yes, he would stick you in Hell if you weren't good enough. And you were never good enough.

She could even hike up the hem of her skirt as proof and show the areas that were more colorful than June's drawing, remnants of a swift kick she hadn't anticipated, and show a little too much leg while she was at it, just to piss him off.

She didn't realize she was grinding her teeth until he reached for her, taking her hand as if it belonged to him, another everyday object he would place on the table and pick up later when he needed it, like a set of keys. He didn't just hold it though. He never just held it. He kneaded and worked it, forming it into she didn't know what, tracing the network of veins under the fine skin, his big fingers constantly massaging at the slender bones, always pressing too forcefully, so that a thing that should have felt pleasant ended up feeling highly irritating. He moved on to the knobby part of her wrist, his thumb stroking the underside where the pitchfork veins and cords of tendon looked like they might rip through flesh if the hand bent back too far. When she was younger and had taken gymnastics, she had been afraid to do handstands, the image of those vulnerable patches of skin suddenly tearing and oozing the contents of her arms onto the tumbling mat haunting her mind. She had gotten over it eventually. Then she found Donovan and a whole new set of reasons to worry about breaks and tears and bleeding.

Ruthie wondered what she would find if she plied at his hands as he did hers. She knew the contours of them, the ridge of his knuckles and the viselike fingers, but to touch them and know their fragilities, if there were any, was an experience she had never had.

She could concentrate on nothing else but his grip on her, there against the pages of her Bible, on his thigh, splayed out over Ephesians. When she thought she was about to crumple inside the way Donovan's carelessness scrunched up the sheer white paper in the book, June rescued her. Pad and crayons put aside, the little girl sought Ruthie's free hand, which was balled in her lap, and cupped her own tiny hands around it ever so gently, as though she had happened on a baby bird fallen from its nest, and meant to scoop it up, return it to safety. Ruthie swallowed repeatedly, fighting the burning sensation in her throat. Without gauging Donovan's mood first, without checking what his reaction would be, she pulled away from him and rested her hand over both of June's.

"Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; that he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, that he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish. So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself."

Ruthie sat through the sermon about husbands and wives and the sanctity of marriage. She could have repeated it verbatim to anyone who asked. But she knew what Donovan would recall, the single statement that hadn't gone through one ear and out the other, would be the pastor's sonorous voice quoting, "And the wife _see_ that she reverence _her_ husband."

As they were leaving, Donovan helping her on with her coat, and she in turn helping June and Charlie, who was clutching a star made of blue construction paper and silver glitter that stuck to his and Ruthie's skin, an elderly couple joined them by the rack of empty hangers. "I just wanted to tell you, dear," the old woman said, smiling kindly, her age spotted hand on Ruthie's arm, "you have such a lovely family."

"Thank you," Ruthie said.

* * *

While Donovan napped on the living room couch, Ruthie kept the children occupied baking a batch of sugar cookies. Rather, she and June baked them, and Charlie ate the soft, malleable dough, but only after he had squeezed and squeezed at it, gotten it in his hair, and squished it between his fingers like Play-Doh. There was more flour on him than on the countertop. He wore just his training pants and dingy white socks, his refusal to be dressed in anything other than his church clothes inciting Donovan to say, "All right, you're the boss," giving the padded bottom a light whack and sending the boy off to play.

Ruthie had expected to get an earful about the boring service and the nutty Baptists and the lousy music and the stuffy church as she changed her own clothes, Donovan ducking into their bedroom to do the same. Instead, he had sidled up behind her and undone the zipper of her skirt. It mushroomed around her as it fell to the floor and lay deflated beside the pumps she had already stepped out of. "You looked perfect today," was all he said, trifling with the lacy edge of her slip, making her shiver. Then he had put on sweats and an NYPD T-shirt, kissing her neck and guiding her from the room after she donned a pair of brown velour jogging pants and a white T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash and showed off her navel.

This was called the honeymoon phase. Ruthie had read about it in pamphlets with titles like "The Stages of Abuse" or "Ending the Cycle of Violence," surreptitiously dropped into her pocket or her purse by suspicious nurses during late night trips to the emergency room. It took about a year of marriage for her to realize she was living what had been described in those narrow, inconspicuous little booklets. Tension built, explosion came, then it was wine and roses and plenty of affection till next time. How crazy, she had thought, sitting on the rim of the tub in the locked bathroom, barely twenty-one, the water running, reading about how women sometimes provoked their husband's anger just to get it over with before it built to an even more painful climax. Not so crazy ten years later, when you had seen what he could do and knew how far he was willing to go. How stupid, she had thought, to fall for the romancing afterwards. But now she understood that it wasn't falling. You were taking what you could get, savoring it, and hoping it lasted a few days longer, a few hours, a few minutes.

"Mama, Charlie's stuffing it up his nose again," June said wearily, swiping her hands across the too-long apron she had wanted to wear so her Tinker Bell sweatshirt wouldn't get dirty.

"Cut it out, Boo Bear," Ruthie said. She laughed when he turned to her and grinned, his nostrils plugged with two small blobs of dough. He sneezed, and Ruthie and June cried, "Ew! Yuck!" at the sight of sugar cookie chunks going airborne and landing on various parts of his body. His round tummy, his sturdy legs.

"_Bwess_ me," he said, and went back to work, using a toy rolling pin to flatten the mound of flour Ruthie had allowed him.

The cookies were expanding in the oven, their warm, intoxicating smell filling the kitchen like a thick haze, when Charlie discovered that a handful of flour was as fun to throw as it was to pat and swirl. He got June first, her wilted ringlets frosted in white granules that made them resemble carnival food—those powdered funnel cakes. Ruthie bent to check the girl's eyes and became his next victim. She stood and coughed, swatting at the puff of white it produced. June and Charlie waited, devilment in their eyes. And they weren't disappointed.

Ruthie pressed her hands flat on the counter, then raised them, palms out for her children to see, as if she were a magician about to perform some great illusion. When they leaned forward to get a better look, she smeared their cheeks with flour. It didn't alter Charlie's appearance much, but June squealed and cried, "Mama!"

"Yes, my sweet?" Ruthie said, already facing the opposite direction. She glanced over her shoulder at June and pretended to be shocked by the girl's messy face.

Charlie had all the permission he needed. He dug deep into the flour bag and pelted his mother and his sister in unison. They worked as a team, creating a blizzard around the boy, but ended up turning on each other. And then it was both children against Ruthie, who immediately surrendered, to no avail. She escaped to the sink, grabbing the chrome sprayer that was mounted near the faucet and turning it on them. June danced away from the cold water, shrieking, but Charlie let it hit him point-blank, the combination of droplets and his powder-caked skin making him look like he was melting. He spun in circles and hopped the way he had in the summer months when Donovan had set up the sprinklers for him and June to run through.

"Come on, Casper, get in there," Ruthie said to June.

June hesitated, looking scandalized, but finally joined her brother and let herself be hosed down in the middle of the kitchen. There was a wide puddle under their sopping bodies by the time Ruthie finished, and Charlie's teeth chattered when he smiled, asking, "You get wet, Mama? You get wet?"

"Nope, sorry. Mama's gotta get these out so they don't burn."

"No fair," June complained, but she watched eagerly as Ruthie retrieved the cookie sheet, one-handed, using an oven mitt for its intended purpose and another to wave Charlie back from the heat of the oven door.

When the cookies had cooled and Ruthie had soaked up most of the water from the floor, though June and Charlie continued to leave moist footprints wherever they stepped, they busied themselves decorating the shapes of bats and pumpkins and snowmen and reindeer. (Charlie hadn't given up on Halloween yet, and June adored Christmas.)

"That's good, Mama," June said, inspecting the heart Ruthie had slathered with pink icing and jimmies, "but maybe you should use the colored sprinkles. I think that would be prettier."

Ruthie tapped the end of June's small, shapely nose, a duplicate of her own. "You are mighty clever," she said, and used the colored sprinkles on her next cookie.

"So are you." June beamed and went back to humming as she placed red cinnamon candies in a vertical line, buttons for her snowman. Charlie tried to hum too, but he didn't know the song.

Ruthie watched them and thought about how much she loved them. More than life itself. Donovan was the furthest thing from her mind, despite the snores that could still be heard from the living room, heavy sleeper that he was.

"Can Joan come over and make cookies with us sometime?" June asked as she helped fill a Tupperware bowl when the treats were finished.

"We'll see." Ruthie focused on positioning a reindeer without breaking its antlers. They snapped off anyway.

Neither June nor Charlie had said a word to Donovan about spending Saturday at the Girardi house while she and Helen shopped. The kids were good about that, withholding certain things from their father, as if they had an innate sense of what was acceptable and what wasn't. And according to Donovan, Ruthie spending time with the Girardis was unacceptable outside of school or his supervision. He had listed reasons why: "Helen's too spacey. She just rubs me wrong. Stay away from her," "That cripple's a jerk-off. Stared at your tits the whole time," "Poor Girardi. His youngest kid's a fag." He disliked Joan most of all. "Don't ever let that smart aleck little bitch in my house again," he said, getting into bed the night of Joan's latte and doughnuts visit. "You hear me, Ruth Anne?"

She always heard. But she wasn't giving up Joan and Helen. They were hers.

June sighed. "That means no."

Ruthie didn't disagree.

"Is it because Daddy doesn't like her?" June asked quietly.

Unable to look into her daughter's solemn face and lie, Ruthie nodded.

"But we like her. Right?"

"Yes, darlin'," Ruthie said, fondling June's damp, scraggly hair, "we like her very much."

"Yup. She's my favorite person after you, Mama." June set another cookie in the bowl. "And Daddy and Charlie."

No questions were asked when Ruthie suddenly gathered June off the step stool and into a fierce hug. The little girl wrapped her arms around Ruthie's neck, clinging, face buried in a thicket of blond hair chalky with flour. Both of them were at Charlie's level, June's feet on the floor, Ruthie on her knees. The boy nuzzled into them, doing his best to stretch his stubby arms wide and pat their backs, his small fingers like the tickling wings of a butterfly.

"Happy and you know it, clap your hands," he said, his high voice a singsong, but a quiet one. He waited for someone to respond.

Ruthie caught him in the hug, too, and squeezed.

* * *

"What in _the_ hell happened in here?" Donovan said, awake from his nap, wandering into the kitchen and staring at the mess on the floor, the counters, the cupboards, the kids, and his wife. He still had the splotchy red imprint of the couch's armrest on his cheek. It made him look like a burn victim.

"We baked," Ruthie said, and offered him a cookie from the Tupperware she hadn't put a lid on yet. Most of the flour was washed off of her face. She had gone to the sink after hugging June and Charlie, her back to them as she ran water on a paper towel and scrubbed so they wouldn't see the tearstains.

Donovan picked the pink heart with the jimmies, eyeing it. He took a bite. "With who? Lucille Ball?"

"Me and Charlie are going to help Mama clean," June said.

"Well," Donovan said, drawing a line through the dust on the refrigerator door and holding up his finger for Ruthie to see, "I hope you had fun."

"We did," Ruthie said, but checked herself there. No sense stirring things up when the day had been going fairly well. "Maybe next time you can join us," she added lightly.

"Maybe." He drifted towards her and leaned against the counter, facing out so he could observe her and the kids. When she looked at him he held his last bite of cookie in front of her, placing it between her parted lips. A priest giving Communion. His hand lowered and the tips of his fingers swept across her exposed belly, where her shirt rode up. She sucked her stomach in. He grinned.

Ruthie's suggestion that June and Charlie take a bath was meant to get the three of them out of Donovan's way, or him from theirs, but it became a family affair. "I'll help," he offered, "since I missed out on the cookies." Charlie hooked under one arm and June under the other, he followed Ruthie down the hall, lurching from side to side to make the kids giggle. They talked happily and splashed in the bathtub, getting the adults equally wet, which made Ruthie peel at her clothes and grimace, saying, "I think I'm turning to paste."

Washed and dried, their warm bodies so soft, so sweet-smelling that Ruthie took her time dressing them, a caress here, a kiss there, as she had done when they were infants, June and Charlie made the unanimous decision to wear pajamas. It was only six o'clock in the evening, but Donovan didn't squawk, so pajamas it was. He laughed appreciatively at Ruthie's comment that Charlie looked like an Oompa Loompa in his snug orange sleeper, and June responded by singing, "_Oompa Loompa doopity dee_" while twirling, Strawberry Shortcake nightgown billowing around her.

"Can we watch Willy Wonka, Mama?" she asked, spinning until she lost her balance and fell into Ruthie. _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_ was one of June's favorites. Charlie's movie, she sometimes called it, because of the main boy whose name was also Charlie.

"Why don't you ask Daddy? Mama needs to take a shower."

"Can we, Daddy?"

Donovan looked up from detangling Charlie's hair, but he spoke to Ruthie, not June. "Daddy was thinking he might join Mama."

"You showered this morning," Ruthie reminded him, working at a knot in her daughter's hair. She ran the comb through the dark ends and up, up, slowly, until she could smooth it through from root to tip without any snags.

"So?"

"Somebody should be with the kids."

"They'll just sit and watch the movie. They'll be fine."

"They need someone to fast forward through the boat scene. It scares them."

"Ow," said Charlie. "Owwie ow." He wriggled free from Donovan and went to Ruthie, who had finished with June. He pointed to the comb, to his hair. His turn.

Swishing her nightgown to and fro, June tiptoed towards Donovan and smiled beguilingly. She tilted her head to one side. "I want you to watch Willy Wonka with me, Daddy. It's funny when you do, 'cause you know the words and make the silly voices. Please, pretty please?"

"I've seen it a million times."

"Please, please, please, please, please, please," June said, and didn't stop till he held his hands up, surrendering.

"Okay. Enough. I give. You win."

Ruthie could tell his annoyance was feigned. He liked to be charmed and beseeched. She used to be able to get away with it too. "Don't let them watch the boat scene," she called when he and the kids padded into the living room.

She felt shamed by the privacy she had in the shower, earned for her by the cunning mind of a five-year-old girl.

* * *

Ruthie selected her green satin chemise with the pink floral pattern and matching lace around hem and straps. It was a feminine number, silky and delicious against her clean skin, though a bit skimpy, as Donovan would call it, for around the house. She took care of that by bundling up in a soft cotton robe, pure white and ending just above her ankles. "I've never seen anyone pay so much damn attention to color before," Donovan would say. "What the hell does it matter how it _feels_ when you wear it?" After the ugly shades of blue and purple she had seen sprout on any given area of her body, after all the unpleasant sensations that had burned and tingled and ached beneath her skin, it mattered a whole hell of a lot.

Hair scrunched and left to dry naturally, she headed for the living room and the scent of popcorn that wafted from it. There was an underlying odor too, a sour, pungent one that Ruthie recognized before she dropped down on the couch and saw the Coors in Donovan's hand.

"Violet! You're turning violet, Violet!" exclaimed the actor playing father to the gum-smacking girl on the television screen. June dumped her handful of popcorn back into the microwaveable bag she and Charlie were munching from, and clapped. She repeated the line, her favorite from the movie, then anchored herself in Ruthie's lap, whispering, "You smell yummy, Mama."

By the time the end credits were rolling, it was 7:30 P.M. and June and Charlie had an hour to go before bedtime. Ruthie and Donovan suffered through an episode of _Spongebob Squarepants_ that was airing on Nickelodeon, but the beginning of a second installment prompted Donovan to get up and roam the house, stopping by the fridge for another beer, and finally stretching out on the floor to do his nightly set of push-ups. Charlie lost interest next and climbed onto his father's back, adding a greater degree of difficulty to the exercise. Donovan accepted the challenge. "Come on, June Bug," he said, sweat beading on his forehead, "you too."

It didn't surprise Ruthie when he complained of a kink in his back a half hour later, the kids tucked in bed, the TV spouting advertisements to an empty couch. He groaned and massaged the sore spot, twisting his shoulders one way and then the other, waiting for bones to pop. "You should see a chiropractor," she told him as he placed his third beer on the kitchen counter and writhed against the waist-high ledge, his legs extended, his upper body and neck arced. His Adam's apple was a thick, rippled mass in his throat, the big veins bulging on either side of his neck as he strained.

"Nah," he said. "I'll get it."

Oh yeah, what a man.

Ruthie polished off the banana she had taken from the bowl on the table. She fiddled with the peel, holding it by the end that wasn't split and dangling it like a pendulum, to and fro.

Unfortunately, the kitchen hadn't cleaned itself and still looked as if it were the set to a summer blockbuster about the aftermath of a volcano eruption. She was tired and didn't want to wipe down cupboards and the floor, but prepared to do it anyway.

"What're you doing?" Donovan asked.

It seemed obvious, what with the damp rag she was using to buff the countertop. She picked his Coors up and handed it to him, swiping at the rings of moisture underneath. "Cleaning," she said.

"Leave it. Let's watch a movie."

"We just watched one."

"Not that kiddie crap. Besides, you missed most of it. Let's watch a real movie, just you and me. How about it?" he said, the beer bottle wedged in the crook of his index and middle fingers. He took a sip and added, "Baby Ruth." That was the nickname he had given her when they were younger: Baby Ruth. Like the candy bar. His sweet treat.

She gazed at the messy kitchen, the imploring look on his face. He so seldom looked at her that way, and the idea of relaxing on the couch was appealing. "Okay. What do you wanna watch?"

After perusing the movie collection that belonged mostly to him, Donovan chose _The Ring_, a horror flick Ruthie had never seen and didn't care to. In high school she had followed the example of her classmates and went to the latest slasher films with a boy or two, sitting in the final row, playing the frightened girlfriend who hid behind her date's coat sleeve when things got too intense, too macabre. Only, she wasn't pretending. From the moment the chilling music and dimly lit scenery commenced, she would be filled with an overwhelming sense of dread that made her heart palpitate and feel too warm in her chest and the light dusting of hair on her arms stand on end. The boys laughed when she latched onto them, repulsed or upset that a character she liked had just been slaughtered. "It's because you're pure of heart, darlin'," was her mother's explanation for the aversion Ruthie had to the carnage, "That's why it bothers you so. You know evil when you see it."

"It's not gory, I swear," Donovan said, stooping to insert the disc in the DVD player that was situated between VCR and satellite box on the entertainment center. "There's a few parts that are kinda gross, that's all. Don't worry, I'll cover your eyes."

"Is it really scary? I mean, are there ghosts and stuff? Dead people?" Ruthie said skeptically. "You know dead people freak me out." She noticed a twinkle in his eye, but it wasn't malevolent. He was being a rascal, boyish, as if he enjoyed her company and the flighty chatter her misgivings brought on. Some of it was the alcohol, which, in limited quantities, mellowed him, then had the opposite effect when he drank too much, but she hoped that wasn't all of it. She tried to recall if he was on his third beer or his fourth. Had there been others while she was in the shower?

"I don't remember. There might be a couple dead people," he said, grinning. But he winced when he straightened, and his face contorted as he sat down next to her on the couch, remote control at the ready. "Goddammit," he muttered, rubbing his side. None of his attempts at unkinking had worked.

"Is it that bad?"

"Yeah."

"Want me to crack it?"

Donovan snorted. "You?"

Ruthie took the remote and put it aside, motioning for him to stand. He gazed at her quizzically and finally said, "What the hell. This oughta be good." When she led him a safe distance from the couch and pointed to the floor, instructing him to lie flat on his stomach, his eyebrows went up even further. He moaned and swore but submitted, lowering himself onto the Oriental rug, a vast ivory and blue island with leafy rosebud designs and yards of fringe, in the middle of the room.

"Aren't you supposed to be wearing stilettos?" he teased as Ruthie placed her bare foot on his back, testing for sturdiness. She ignored him and extended her arms to balance herself as she ascended him like a stair, her entire ninety-four pound frame perched atop his one hundred eighty-seven. She hadn't done this for anyone else but her father, whose laborious factory job had caused him chronic aches and pains, most of which resided in his back and shoulders. "Need you to walk on me again, Ruthie Sue," he would say, chuckling as he sprawled out and waited for her to step on, scolding, "Ruthie _Anne_, Daddy." Of course, that had been years and years ago when she was a child and considerably lighter.

"Sweet Jesus," Donovan rasped, "you trying to kill me?"

"Quit whining."

"What?" He lifted his head abruptly, twisting it, his gaze slanted up at her.

"Nothing. I said keep still." Ruthie prodded between his shoulder blades with the ball of her foot, then took two cautious steps in that direction.

"It's lower."

She backtracked, bringing her heel down where his middle met the slope of his rear, and applied pressure till she heard a blunt pop. Donovan exhaled loudly.

"Shit," he said, sounding impressed. "You got it. Where'd you learn to do that?" When he turned, he turned too far and too quickly, not giving her the time she needed to shift her weight from the foot on his back to the one on the rug. She teetered for a moment, steadied, and fell anyway, her breath leaving her before it could be knocked out by the heavy landing on Donovan's side and his upraised elbow in her ribs. The impact crunched his knuckles against the floor.

It was quiet as they both tried to comprehend what had happened. Donovan recovered first, his pain and his fury in a neck and neck race to reach the surface. "Son of a-" he began, but cut himself off. He raised his hand and shook it as if hurt was like water and could be flicked from your fingers. He used his other hand to roll himself away from Ruthie, flopping her onto the rug, and sat up. "Christ, Ruth Anne," he spat, combining the names like they were one. "What is wrong with you? You're so stupid!"

Distracted by the sensation that a firecracker had just gone off in her rib cage, Ruthie barely registered his voice. She missed nothing she hadn't heard a hundred times before. "Ow," she whimpered, unable to think of any other word but the one Charlie used for his boo-boos. _Owwie ow_. "Ow," she said again, and untied the belt to her robe, scooting until her back was against the couch frame and any oncoming blows would be at an angle she could see, not from behind. She held her side, the flimsy material of her nightgown slippery to the touch.

"Hey," Donovan said.

She clenched her teeth.

"Hey," he repeated.

Ruthie flinched when he neared her and put forth his hand. She hated herself for doing the same thing she had once seen a neighbor's dog do while its owner, a burly old man who had despised animals as much as he despised thirteen-year-old girls living next door, reached to stroke its fur with coarse, unmerciful fingers. She had pitied that dog and cried for it, pestering her mother to call an animal shelter. Or the police. The police did nothing. Nothing except knock on her front door and ask questions when the dog went missing, to the outrage of the old man. He swore wholeheartedly that Ruthie was responsible for the mutt's disappearance. And he had been right, though no one had ever proven she took the creature from its pen, coaxed it along on a leash for nine miles during a midnight bike ride, and set it loose in a field that spread endlessly away from the harsh calls of its master.

But Donovan didn't hit her. He stood there with his hand outstretched. When she didn't take it, he squatted beside her and said, "Are you okay?"

She focused on breathing.

"Answer me, Ruth Anne. Did you break something?"

If she kept him waiting much longer, Ruthie knew his observing would turn into inspecting. And the whole left half of her body ached too much to be poked and prodded at. "No," she said wanly, "I don't think so." Pretty damn close, though.

"More than I can say for my hand," he said, furling and unfurling his fingers and shaking them again. His tone was odd for the situation, a mix of humor and irony. "I might be ruined for life."

"Sorry," Ruthie muttered. She forced herself to let go of her side and put her disheveled robe in order, closing it, but not tying the belt. Her insides felt like gelatin.

"You're bleeding."

That's what the familiar taste was. Ruthie ran her tongue along her bottom lip and found the sensitive area at the corner of her mouth, the source of the blood. "I guess I bit it," she said.

"Wait here."

Donovan returned bearing a damp washcloth and electric heating pad, the latter of which he tossed onto the couch, its cord unraveling in a spiral, the forked plug snagging in the decorative afghan that was an anniversary gift from his grandmother. "Damn," he whispered, freeing the plug from its snare and putting it in the nearest jack. He fiddled with the power settings, turning the heat to high. Then he caught Ruthie under the arms and lifted, easing her off the floor and onto the couch cushion. She wasn't able to look him in the eye as he swabbed the blood from her lip. It was disconcerting, how gently he worked. His touch was strange when it was soft.

"Maybe I'll just go to bed," she tried.

"It's nine o'clock. We haven't even started the movie yet," he said, his breath warm and rancid on her face as he removed the washcloth and looked at the red stains in the nubby fabric. He flipped it over and put the clean side to her mouth.

"I'm tired, Donnie. You go on and watch it."

Donovan sighed dejectedly. "Fine. Do whatever you want." He let the washcloth drop into her lap and reached for the remote and his beer.

What Ruthie wanted was time alone to sort through her emotions and the pain that had coiled itself around her bones, already making her joints stiff in places that weren't related to the fall. Her body was a scoreboard keeping track of every injury and flashing the total in bold, relentless numbers whenever another point was earned. Donovan, infinity; Ruthie, 0. But she didn't have the energy for his resentment or the walk to their bedroom, so she stayed. Fifteen minutes into the movie, after one chilling death scene had already passed, his frigidness disappeared and he offered her a nip from his Coors. He rolled his eyes when she didn't take it, but he drew her close, helping her situate herself against him and wrangle the heating pad cord along with her. As promised, he shielded her during the gruesome moments, which were most of the film.

Ruthie let exhaustion and the twinge in her ribs overshadow her fear. She didn't care that Naomi Watts and her creepy pretend son were being terrorized by an evil dead girl, and she dozed off with her cheek on Donovan's brawny chest while another victim's life was being claimed.

"You missed Samara crawling out of the TV," Donovan said when he roused her, the cast list scrolling the television screen.

"Darn."

"This help?" He slipped his fingers beneath a gap in her robe and touched the heating pad that was wrapped around her middle.

"Yeah," she lied.

Donovan aimed the remote at the television and switched it off. "It's eleven. Ready for bed?"

Ruthie nodded sleepily. Sitting up took effort, and getting to her feet was a daunting task, so she stalled. She gave the heating pad cord a few lame tugs, but it didn't budge.

"Here." Donovan yanked on the cord. The plug disconnected from its socket, sparking. He smiled at her as if he had just performed a nifty trick, and he stood before she did, curving one arm around her back and one under her knees. He hoisted her as he would June or Charlie, like it required no exertion on his part, like he was lifting air or a pile of laundry.

Before Donovan, when she was still Ruth Anne Sullivan, smallest cheerleader on the high school squad, and the lithest, her guy friends had enjoyed toting her around. "C'mere, Ruthie, let Grady see how light you are," one would say. And Grady or Buddy or whoever else had yet to test his strength would grin and bounce her in his arms, showing off how utterly masculine he could be. "Nah, she don't weigh nothin'." Giggling coyly, Ruthie had soaked up the attention and lavished praise, sometimes to the point of making the boys blush. At seventeen it seemed romantic and flattering, guys carting her wherever she pleased. But cradled by her husband, she felt demeaned, childish. "I can walk," she said.

He continued on and fiddled with the light switches. The hallway brightened as the living room darkened. Empty liquor bottle, heating pad and bloody washcloth were left in plain view.

"We should clean up," Ruthie said. "I didn't finish the kitchen."

"Tomorrow."

* * *

Donovan reached for her that night—after she had hurried through brushing her teeth and traded the warmth of her robe for that of the rumpled white sheets and comforter. Stripped to his boxers, he hadn't been far behind. She knew how to fake sleep, each intake of air shallow at first, then deeper and rhythmic, eyelids relaxed with the tiniest of slits, ditto for the mouth, and hand curled just so on a jumble of hair. But convincing as she was, he reached for her. She yelped when her unresponsiveness made him squeeze at her tender ribs.

"Not tonight, Donnie. Please?"

"Why?" He stroked the length of her arm, kissed it.

At least he was asking instead of going ahead and taking. "Because it hurts," she said of her side. He didn't need a clearer explanation. He knew.

Donovan found the bottom of her silky chemise and inched it up her thigh, her hip, and so on. "It hurts?" His tone was sympathetic, the way he talked to June when she fell and scraped her knees. "Poor Ruthie." More kisses grazed her bare skin. His lips flirted with the plum-colored bruise. Her shucked off nightie lay on the floor. "God. You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, turning her towards him and pinning her shoulder to the pillow.

"No, I'm not," Ruthie said, before his mouth came down hard on hers. She tasted blood again, and beer. Priss, he often called her, because she didn't drink.

It was over by the time nausea replaced the feeling that she was being sliced into quarters with a dull blade, at the waist and lengthwise. She counted herself lucky. If he had held both wrists above her head instead of just the right, she might have thrown up on him. Blowing air out through his teeth as though he was about to whistle, he dropped back on his pillow and slapped his supposedly injured hand against his chest. Ruthie rolled away from him, onto the side of her body that wasn't screaming quite as loudly as the other, and made herself small and invisible under the covers, though she couldn't draw her knees up like she wanted—moving that way was too painful. She had learned not to ask why or how could you, don't you care about me, what's wrong with you. It was never he who was in the wrong, anyway. _You're the one who hurt yourself, Ruth Anne. You're the one who wore that to bed, you're the one who asked for it._ And maybe that was right. Maybe she had been less cautious today and tested him. It was a stupid, useless dream, she knew, but some deep down part of her that Donovan couldn't touch with his severe hands still hoped he might one day change his mind and love her. Just love her.

"Christ sakes, here comes the pity party," he said when he heard her sniffle. "I was careful. What more do you want?"

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

"Nothing, Donnie."

* * *

Weeks later the pain was gone, the bruise healed. And Ruthie discovered she was pregnant.


	10. Rainy Days and Mondays

**Author's Note: **To save any confusion... the very end of chapter 9 skipped ahead, while this chapter reverses (it's the Monday _right _afterthe Sunday in chapter 9), and then chapter 11 will pick up where chapter 9 left off. That probably didn't make a lick of sense, but you'll get it as you read. I hope. And I hope I didn't bore anyone with the last chapter -- I realize it had very little to do with Joan, but I felt it was important to show Ruthie's side of things, and, as you can tell from the length, I really loved writing from her perspective. Anyway, there's really only one other time that I focus solely on Ruthie like that, and that's for _part_ of chapter 11, but it's important to the story (as was chapter 9). So don't skip it. ;)

* * *

Funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do  
Run and find the one who loves me

What I feel has come and gone before  
No need to talk it out, we know what it's all about  
Hangin' around, nothing to do but frown  
Rainy days and Mondays always get me down

--The Carpenters, "Rainy Days and Mondays"

* * *

**RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS**

Joan hadn't seen Ruthie since baby-sitting on Saturday. Sunday was tedious and spent ruminating -- what was Ruthie doing? Worse, what was Donovan doing? By Monday it was all Joan could do to make it through the classes that preceded choir. She didn't think of her days in terms of hours or school or bumming around with Grace anymore. (She and Grace were barely speaking.) They were the time that passed between seeing Ruthie and then seeing her again. And the first weekend that Joan had had to weather through with the knowledge of Donovan's abuse turned out to be a bitch.

She was still lying to her mother, who had sat her down late Saturday night for yet another interrogation. Helen gave such an accurate description of what she believed was going on with Ruthie and Donovan, attributing Joan's recent moodiness to it, as well, that Joan came close to blurting the whole story. She might have, if not for the details of how unwilling Ruthie had been to talk.

"This is serious, Joan. If you know something, you should tell me," Helen said.

"She's my teacher, Mom. I don't know what goes on in her personal life."

More than the others, that lie ate at Joan. It felt like a betrayal to call Ruthie anything less than a friend.

Drab, chilly, and wet with drizzle that was havoc on the hair, Monday seemed to be reflecting Joan's frame of mind. She left for school with her parka hood pulled low on her brow and would have kept it there had she not met Price and his, "This is not a monastery, Ms. Girardi. Show us that radiant face," in the hall. She doffed the parka, but her spirits didn't boost until after lunch, choir right around the corner. Even now, in spite of their secret, Ruthie's class was the bright and optimistic part of Joan's day that made Arcadia High seem worth it.

"Ah, there's my girl," Ruthie said, glancing up from the papers on her desk when Joan arrived to an otherwise empty room. She rotated the seat of her swivel chair and looked at the wall clock behind her, adding, "And she's early. Brava."

"Am I?" Joan looked at the clock too, but she knew what time it was. She had hoped to find Ruthie alone. Were it possible, she would have done away with everyone else in choir, Friedman especially, and kept the instructor all to herself, just Joan and Ruthie.

"Little bit." Ruthie smiled and waved her over. "Did you have a good rest of the weekend?"

"Yeah, it was all right."

"Just all right?"

Joan nodded. "What about you?" She reached for the pink Sharpie on Ruthie's desk and idly rolled it along the surface, forward and back again. "Everything okay?"

"Mm-hmm." Ruthie trapped the Sharpie beneath her finger and sent it back with a flick of her lacquered nail. She liked the clean, weightless feel of clear polish and often wore that to school. Today, in her loose-fitting tan sweater and simple cream slacks, she was dressed down more than usual, so it worked, the plain trim. "All June and Charlie talked about was how much fun they had at Joanie's house, after we left the other day. They wanted to know if you could watch them while I teach, instead of the nanny."

"My offer to drop out still stands."

"Hey," Ruthie said, giving Joan's arm a light swat. More of a pat, really. "What about me?"

"Well, I'll drop everything but choir. The kids can come with me for that. I'll hide them in a duffel, and Price'll never know."

"Why does it sound like you've thought this through?"

"'Cause I have." Joan grinned, passing the marker. "Only, what I originally came up with was that you quit too, and both of us take the kids and go somewhere like, I dunno, California or something. Wait, there's the Broadway thing in New York. But nah, that's where you were before. Anyway, California. And you can become a singer - a famous one - and I'll be June and Charlie's nanny who just lives with you and travels with you." She peeked uncertainly at Ruthie, hoping that wasn't too over the top. It had sounded a lot less obsessive in her head.

"Nashville."

"Huh?"

Ruthie tried to aim the next serve out of Joan's reach. "We could go to Nashville," she said, her tongue dallying near the corner of her mouth. She withdrew it quickly. "California's too Britney Spears. And I don't want to go back to New York. Nashville's closer to my mom. I could be the new leading lady in country music: Loretta, Dolly, Reba, Martina... and Ruthie."

"Oh, my God," Joan said, and laughed too loudly. She covered her mouth. "Country? With the big hair and the cowboy boots and the crying into your beer?"

"That's such a stereotype. There's way more to country music than that. What? Stop it! There is." But Ruthie giggled, a soft and airy sound. "I'm serious, now. If you don't straighten up, I'm gonna make you sing with me. We'll be a duet. Like the Judds. And you'll be the one with the big hair and cowboy boots, while I'll get all the pretty dresses." She clapped her hands like a delighted little girl. "Oh, we would paint the tour bus pink, and there would be rhinestones. Oodles of rhinestones."

Amused by the image of herself with teased bangs and heavy makeup, Ruthie in a tacky gown, sashaying out of a twinkly fuchsia bus and onto the stage, Joan cracked up. She overdid her turn with the Sharpie. It clinked against the mug Ruthie kept filled with pens and pencils, and ricocheted off the desk, spinning on the floor like the decision arrow in a child's board game. "Oops. Sorry," she said as Ruthie rolled after their plaything, short legs and small feet working to influence the wheels of her chair.

"Uh-huh, you look real so-" Ruthie's gasp was sharp and spasmodic as she bent to grab the marker, forgetting her bruised ribs. She reached for them, caught her mistake, and sat upright, all in one jerky motion.

Joan's laughter died in her throat. She spoke with trepidation. "What's wrong?" Her voice quavered, eyes already moist. She had been dreading this. "He hurt you again. That friggin' psycho. Is it bad? What did he do?" The answer to the last question frightened her, whatever it might be, but she needed to know.

"No, no," Ruthie said, her tone that of someone correcting a frisky puppy. "That's not what happened, sweetie. This was an accident. I'm stupid -- I lost my balance and fell, and I landed on my side. It really was an accident."

"Don't call yourself stupid, and don't lie for him."

"I'm not ly-"

"Ruthie! He beats you. Just say it!"

Ruthie glanced at the open doorway to the classroom. "That is enough. Go sit down," she said, calm but stern, and right on time. Two students were wandering in. She smiled warmly. "Dorothy, Jen. I love it when y'all get here. You look so cheerful."

"Go away," Joan said to them, before their giddy grins could inflate any further. "We're talking."

The girls stared, taken aback. They sat beside each other and whispered, sneaking looks at Joan after Ruthie made light of the situation and urged them to find their seats. Ten minutes later, the room was full of students, each of whom received a personalized greeting when they entered, and Joan's intervention had flopped like all the others. She channeled her frustration onto her desktop, scratching at the wood with the silver band that connected worn-down eraser to pencil. She didn't realize what she had written until she paused and read "DON SUCKS" in uneven, pointed letters. No.2 graphite didn't hide but emphasized the marks, so she concealed them with a textbook from her bag and leaned her elbow on its cover.

* * *

"D'ya hear about the drugs?" Grace said, falling into step with Joan, who had just finished World History, final class of the day.

Joan blinked, surprised by the sudden inquiry and the fact that Grace was talking to her. Ever since the argument about Ruthie, they had kept up the pettiness, their words terse when they did come and almost as cutting when they didn't. It solved nothing, but Joan had felt better at first, having someone to defend Ruthie against. Even if it was the wrong someone. Now, though, Grace's company was sorely missed.

"What drugs?"

"Geez, Girardi. You been walking around in a bubble for the past hour and a half?" Typical Grace. But she was ribbing; that was a good sign. "Some bonehead jock and his trampy girlfriend got into it, and she accused him of having a stash in his locker. So Price went all out. Police, narcotic detection dogs, everything. Didn't find squat. But I bet the whole school will be subject to locker searches tomorrow." She sneered. "Fascists."

"The police were here?"

"Are. There's still a few of them nosing around, I think." Grace halted, refusing to quicken her pace to keep up with Joan's long strides. "Dude, where's the fire?" she called.

"I have to check on something."

"Nice chatting with you too."

"Sorry." Joan glanced back and waved apologetically.

* * *

She heard him before she saw him, the deep and, she imagined, venomous tone of his voice easy to recognize because it had haunted her for the past week, a cruel, broken record of insults and curses that doubled in volume in the two hours since Ruthie's telltale gasp, which Joan had spent stewing over, conjuring up the worst of scenarios for. Her hesitation outside the music room was fleeting, a brief stammer of her feet rather than a complete stop, and this time she didn't hold back, didn't have to. He was on her turf now, in a room she frequented, saying God knows what to a woman he wasn't worthy of breathing the same air as, let alone of conversing with.

Joan put her hand on the ajar, heavy wooden door and bulldozed it out of her way. It drifted shut behind her.

"-thought I'd stop in and tell you 'hi,'" Donovan was saying, arms crossed, his hip cocked, holstered gun on display. He looked bigger. Darker.

The indifference on Ruthie's face changed to wide-eyed surprise when she gazed to the right of him and said tightly, unnaturally, "Joan..." No specific punctuation. Just that mixture of fear and pleading at the end, as if she knew where this was headed before Joan herself even knew.

Donovan turned, looked, then continued on like there had been no interruption. "You're done for the day, right? Baby?" He fanned his hand in front of Ruthie's eyes to get her attention. "Ruth Anne."

"Her name is Ruthie," Joan snapped. She went to Ruthie's side and stood where he had to face her, face both of them, or turn away altogether.

"I know what my wife's name is."

_My wife. _God, how Joan hated that. "Why don't you go do your job and leave her alone?"

"Listen, kid, what I do with my time is none of your damn business. I suggest _you_ butt out and leave _us_ alone."

"Why, so you can smack her around in private? Whoops! Too late, already seen that." Joan hadn't meant to say it, and certainly not in such a crude manner with Ruthie right there, but her adrenaline had kicked in at the sight of him, and all the things she had been saving up, dreaming how and when and what she would tell him if she ever got the chance, were surfacing at once. She felt Ruthie's hand on her arm, squeezing. It didn't hurt, but they were firm, those slender, delicate fingers, and stronger than Joan would have guessed.

"Joan, please-"

Donovan cut Ruthie off. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw you hit her that day I was at your house. After I spilled my latte on you. By the way, I take it back. I'm not sorry," Joan said. Childish, maybe. But worth it. "I came down the hall and heard all the crap you were saying. Calling my brother a cripple? Yeah, that's a good one. How clever. And then you just-" She glanced at Ruthie, whose eyes were closed, head lowered, shaking. "Then you just hit her when she wasn't even looking." Joan swallowed hard and glared at Donovan. "What is that about? It's not enough you make, like, three of her, you need to catch her when her guard's down too?"

"Jesus," he muttered, and had the audacity to laugh, though it was more of a smirk with sound. He dropped his arms to his sides and began to pace the length of floor between teacher's and students' desks. "So that's why Girardi kept asking about my wife today. You went crying to your daddy with this bull."

"No," Joan said, as Ruthie looked up questioningly. "I didn't. I swear I didn't."

"Yeah, well, I got news for you, little girl. It don't matter who you tell 'cause it's my word against yours. And nobody's gonna believe a mentally disturbed brat -- yeah, I know all about how crazy you 'used to be.' I didn't find out from her" - He thrust his thumb in Ruthie's direction - "or your daddy, so you can stop pouting. People talk. Nobody'll believe you over a cop. Especially when the cop's wife won't verify your story. Right, Ruth Anne?"

It worried Joan that Ruthie didn't deny it.

"Christ," Donovan said to no one. He stopped pacing and sat down heavily in the middle desk in the front row. Joan's seat. "'Hit her when she wasn't looking.' I hardly touched her. You two are peas in a pod. Can't even lay a fucking finger on her without being treated like I'm some lowlife dirtbag on the street, gonna drag her into an alley and rape her."

Ruthie made a soft, disgusted noise, pushing air up through her throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said mockingly. "Does that offend you? Think how it makes me feel."

"Nobody gives a crap how you feel." Joan wished he would glance at the slat of wood beneath his arm and see what she had written about him.

"I'm getting really sick of your mouth." Donovan slapped his hands against the desktop and got to his feet. He pointed at Joan. "One of these days it's gonna get your ass kicked."

"By you? Go ahead. Crazy girls bruise too."

Ruthie jostled past Joan and stood in Donovan's path as he moved forward. He stopped just short of running into her, but she did not back up. "Don, you're acting like a fool. She is a child, not to mention the daughter of someone you work with. For once," she said, emphasizing both words, "consider what you're doing."

He lowered his face close to hers, squinting meanly. "You got some nerve siding with her and calling me a fool," he said, taking Ruthie by the head, palms flat against her ears, and giving the slightest of jerks.

Joan's heart fluttered. One wrong move...

"Ah, shit," Donovan said. "Neither of you are worth it." He let go of Ruthie but only for a second, quickly clamping hold of her wrist like it meant to escape him. He yanked even though she wasn't fighting him. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car. Too many crackpots around here."

_What a gentleman!_, Joan wanted to yell. But there was such sadness in Ruthie's eyes when she turned for a departing look, such deep despair. The man who seemed to literally hold her life in his hands didn't look back at all. Joan waited till the door latched shut, then she picked up the nearest item, the Sharpie she and Ruthie had played with earlier, and heaved it with every bit of strength she could muster. It clattered to the floor and so did she, sitting, her book bag going _thwump_ as it hit the tiles. She let her shoulders sag, and then her backbone, until she was hunched over with her elbows on her knees and her hair sweeping the ground.

"Help me, God," she whispered tearfully. "I don't know what to do."


	11. Sticks and Stones

**STICKS AND STONES**

Thanksgiving began as the weeks since Joan's showdown with Donovan Snow had come and gone: uneventfully, slowly, almost comforting in its mundaneness. God was on vacation again, his single appearance made in the bookstore while Joan was shelving hardbacks of a new release by an author she had never heard of. He had waited till the day after her plea, when confusion and anxiety were knotted like pretzels in the pit of her stomach, and came with the face of a stranger, an anonymous teenage girl Joan thought looked like Ruthie. Or perhaps that was a trick of the eye, because Ruthie was everywhere -- in every song, movie, and page of required reading for English class. Joan had cried harder than Helen on family night when they tortured the male Girardis with the quintessential chick flick, _Fried Green Tomatoes_. Friendship, spousal abuse, and a character named Ruth. It hit too close to home.

The laissez-faire answers God gave were meaningless to Joan. She had enough riddles to solve. Was she meant to disclose the truth, or was Ruthie? What happened if she told and, like Donovan had said, no one believed her? Helen would, but what good did that do if Ruthie kept silent? And which was more dangerous: Ruthie living with Donovan and their secret, or her living with him after the secret got out and didn't land him smack in jail? And jail, if it transpired, didn't last forever. What happened after that?

"Just be concerned with the present, Joan. That's where Ruthie is. That's where you will help her. Leave the future to itself."

The future consisted of homework and tests, tense looks across the dinner table at her mother and father, a couple forgettable squabbles with Grace, and very little of anything to do with Ruthie, outside choir practice. If there were any fresh injuries, Joan wasn't aware of them. And she was vigilant. Strangely, Ruthie's happiness had regained its original spark, and when Joan asked after her, the replies were direct and authentic.

Donovan was a ghost once more.

Nana and Pop Pop Brodie's house smelled like childhood, years of past Thanksgivings drifting from plates and covered dishes filled with sweet and mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, dressing, and so much turkey it could have come from twelve birds instead of one. The cousins were there; the aunts and uncles, each of the latter wanting to know how many boyfriends Joan had. None! Well now, that just couldn't be true. She assured them it was.

Joan lost herself in the feast so that it seemed to be consuming her instead of vice versa. She ate almost as much as Will, who collapsed on the sofa at home, complaining of the stomach ache he had given himself. By late evening, the pain had spread to his back and sides.

* * *

Ruthie took a sip of tepid water from the wine glass beside her plate and tried not to look bored. Food was usually a welcome distraction when she dined at Donovan's parents' house, but her mother-in-law's cooking, however extravagant, wasn't agreeing with her today. And Paige Snow had been monopolizing the conversation for the last half hour, only engaging her son and, occasionally, her husband, Randall. If not for June and Charlie, Ruthie would have felt like a complete outsider. She smiled at them and waved with her pinky.

"Is something the matter with your food?"

Donovan had to clear his throat before Ruthie realized Paige was speaking to her. "Huh?" she said, then hurried to add, "Pardon?"

An attractive older woman, Paige's appearance was as meticulously cared for and situated as the china that decorated her table. What she lacked in size, for she tended to be the smallest adult in the room when Ruthie wasn't on the guest list, she made up in demeanor. Her hair hadn't yet faded from its natural auburn shade, and it draped about her like a bridal veil, sleek and mesmerizing to the eye. The one off-center feature she possessed was her smile, a crescent moon of white that never reached quite as high on the right as it did the left. Sometimes when he smirked, Donovan looked just like her.

"You're not eating," Paige said, her lips still a bit cockeyed when they weren't upturned. "I assume there is a problem with the meal."

"Oh, no." Ruthie looked at the helpings of mashed potatoes, gravy, and creamed corn that were beginning to congeal in front of her. "No, it's lovely. You did a wonderful job, really wonderful. I just- I'm not feeling too hungry."

"But it's Thanksgiving."

"I know," Ruthie said. She reached for her fork. "I'm sorry."

Donovan placed his hand on her arm, stilling her. "She doesn't have to eat if she doesn't want to, Mom. Let her be."

"I wasn't going to force it down her throat, Donovan." Paige's voice softened whenever she spoke her son's name, but her gaze stayed cool and fixed on Ruthie. "It's such a waste, though. To come all the way from Arcadia and not enjoy dinner, I mean."

"Mother."

After that, Ruthie sensed her children watching to see what she would do. Quietly, she laid the fork aside, the tines balanced on the edge of her plate. She drank the rest of her water in a single gulp but didn't request more. The pitcher was at Paige's end.

Gigantic, gooey slices of raspberry pie were served for dessert. No one but Randall liked pumpkin; that entire pie went to him. As he doused it with whipped cream, Ruthie concentrated on smelling anything besides the slightly overdone crust. Donovan offered her a piece of the raspberry, which she accepted despite Paige's faint sniff and found she could stomach, though she ate mostly filling and gave Charlie several bites. Rather than accuse of her being difficult, Donovan gobbled up his portion and then finished the remainder of hers, sliding eager little boy glances in her direction the whole time.

"Should I tell them now?" he asked, swiping a napkin over his purple lips. He was elated to the point of giddiness. Ruthie nodded and wished she knew how to make the sparkle in his eyes permanent.

"Tell us what?" Paige cradled the bowl of her wine glass, the stem wedged between her fingers, and lifted, but posed with it instead of drinking.

Donovan put his arm around Ruthie and turned to his parents. "You're gonna be grandparents again. Ruth Anne's pregnant, just found out the other day."

A plus sign on the home pregnancy test and a second opinion from the doctor, at Donovan's request, had confirmed Ruthie's suspicions. Baby number three should be arriving sometime in early August. "For my birthday?" June, born on the sixth, had asked when Ruthie explained to her and Charlie they would have a new baby brother or sister.

Paige and Randall were far less enthusiastic. He raised a forkful of pie and cream in a congratulatory salute, and she stayed immobile as a statue. "I figured as much," she finally said to Donovan, who waited expectantly.

"She's not even showing yet. How would you 'figure as much'?"

"Finicky appetite, insisting on water" - Paige sloshed the burgundy liquid in her glass - "and she's got that look. But you gave it away with the Cheshire cat grin you've been wearing since you walked through the door."

"My mother, the psychic." Donovan rolled his eyes. "You could stand to show a little excitement too. At least pretend you're happy for us."

"Oh, I'm happy for you. But..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

"Tell me."

Ruthie braced herself for Paige's reply. Because it would surely come. His ability to speak each and every callous thought that entered his head was a trait Donovan had inherited from his mother. It helped to remember her own mother's reaction to the news, which left Ruthie's ears ringing with ecstatic screams and more than one "I wish you weren't so far away" long after she had hung up the phone.

"Well, to be honest, it seems a bit soon. Your youngest is still in diapers."

_Diapers_. As if there were something dreadful about a toddler who soiled himself from time to time.

"I'm working with him on that," Ruthie said levelly. "And he'll be almost three and a half when the baby's born. That's plenty of time to learn."

Paige pursed her crooked lips and glared at her husband for commenting, "Hell, Donovan messed his drawers till he was in kindergarten. They were constantly sending him home because he smelled like a sewer."

"That's vulgar, Randall. Eat your pie," she said, and to Ruthie, "Having a newborn and a three-year-old will be stressful. I'm concerned about the burden on my son and you."

"June was three when Charlie was born. It was never a burden."

Paige's dark eyes flashed. "Your wife has an answer for everything, Donovan. Having two kids to my one must have made her an expert."

"I didn't mean-"

"Of course you didn't, hon. Sweet, innocent little thing like you?" Paige set her wine glass down heavily. "Now if you'd learn to keep those innocent legs together and take care of what you've already got, you'd be damn near perfect."

Donovan's hold on Ruthie's shoulders slackened and then retracted completely when she looked at him, so stunned that she forgot eleven years of his failure to defend her against Paige's lambasting. He handled the nitpicks, his tone playfully exasperated, but when it came to the real insults, the ones that stung like a quick, sharp hand, Ruthie was on her own. And somehow they became her fault. She could see him changing already, the joy gone from his face and disapproval replacing it, as he glanced sidelong at her.

She knew better than to get caught in Paige's snare, a preface to many nasty battles with Donovan in the past. What made her snatch the napkin from her lap, toss it onto the table, and speak, she wasn't sure. Maybe it was the safety of being pregnant and the swear words and hateful names, and possibly the heel of a palm to the side of her head but not too hard, that were as bad as it got for nine months. Or maybe she had just had enough.

"How dare you. I know how you feel about me, Paige -- that's fine. But I will not sit here and be called a bad mother. Not by you, and not in front of my children."

"Ruth Anne," Donovan barked.

Her voice trembled as she went on. "I would never claim to be perfect. I'm far from it. But at least June and Charlie know that I love them. And so will the baby. They'll grow up knowing how to love other people, too, and how to show kindness."

Donovan swung the back of his shoe into the leg of Ruthie's chair and leaned over, growling into her ear, each word separate and dangerous, "You are embarrassing me. Shut your goddamn mouth."

June started to cry.

With no clear notion of what she would do or how she would pull it off, Ruthie got up and unhooked Charlie from his booster seat. He was in her arms and clinging before she had the chance to lift him. She beckoned to June, who instantly had her by the hand and melded with every move she made, every step.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Donovan called, as she passed through the wide archway that opened into the front terminal of the house, where the staircase to the second level, living and dining rooms, and the entry to the basement all branched from one space with a cathedral ceiling and burnished oak floor. The front door was there too.

"Home."

June bundled up by herself while Ruthie fished in the pocket of Donovan's coat for the car keys and got her own coat and Charlie's from the hooks on the wall. The boy was partially in his sleeve when Ruthie heard her husband tell his parents, "I'll straighten her out." ("You do that," Paige replied.) She got Charlie zipped and both kids outside, with only her purple sweater and jeans to keep the cold at bay.

"Help your brother into his seat," she said to June, once they reached the car. She was watching them in the rearview mirror to make sure they were latched, her belt already in place, the motor running and the power locks double-clicked, when Donovan thumped on the driver's side window with such force she thought it would break. She shook her head at his motion to roll it down.

"Ruth Anne," he began, and she could tell a string of profanity followed in his mind, that it was torture for him not to be able to grab her and scream in her face every filthy word he could think of. "You are being ridiculous. If you don't get your- if you don't get out of this vehicle and in that house..." He glanced at June and Charlie staring with big, alert eyes from the backseat. He banged on Ruthie's window again.

"I'm not going back in there. I won't."

He scrunched up his features. "What?"

"I SAID NO!"

Ruthie should have put the gear in reverse and stomped on the gas, but she hesitated a second too long. In that moment she saw the flaws in her plan or lack of one -- the tank was near empty, and Donovan's wallet held the money to fill it; her seat had to be readjusted because it was fit to Donovan's body and no amount of stretching touched her foot to the pedal; she wasn't acquainted with the two hour and thirty minute route to Arcadia; June's seat belt was twisted into a spiral across her chest and needed tightening at the waist; and Charlie's zipper looked like it was strangling him, the roll of fat under his chin red and splotchy.

Donovan ran his fingers through his hair and gazed at the rows of houses that lined the street, happy families tucked away inside them, private as could be. "Fine," he said. "Okay then. Let's go home. Wait here while I tell my folks."

What else could she do? She waited.

He drove without speaking to her, his hands cemented to the wheel. She was thankful for the early evening darkness of November that shrouded his face and seduced the children into blessed, oblivious sleep.

* * *

"Kidney stones."

Joan fidgeted on the edge of the rickety chair in the waiting room and stared up at her mother, aghast. "Oh my God, he has kidney stones," she whispered, ready to burst into tears. "Can you die from that?"

"Oh, honey." Helen laughed lightly. "No. But they're very painful."

"So I gathered."

After hours of moaning and groaning about the sharp pain in his gut, Will had given in and allowed his wife and daughter to take him to the hospital. _I probably ate too much turkey_, he kept repeating, until his discomfort had become so intense he would only grimace and shift restlessly. Every diagnosis from food poisoning to ruptured appendix went through Joan's mind, but never kidney stones.

Helen explained what they were and got as far as the words "dilate" and "ureter" before Joan waved her hands in the air like she was frantically hailing a taxicab.

"Whoa, ew. Don't ever, ever say 'ureter' to me again. Ever. Just fast forward to what happens now."

"They want to keep him overnight. The stones might not pass on their own. He'll have to have them blasted if they don't."

Joan jutted her bottom lip out. "Poor Daddy. Can I see him?"

"He's not really up to visitors right now, sweetie. I have to go back and talk to the doctor and fill out some more paperwork. Why don't you let me tell him you said hi and hope he feels better soon?"

"I guess." Joan sighed. "Tell him I love him," she called, after Helen had kissed her on the forehead and gone off to the set of automatic doors that lurched open and shut like clumsy jaws, gobbling up each individual who happened by.

The scruffy television, which projected from a rod secured high on the wall, and its badly discolored picture didn't hold Joan's interest for long. And she could practically see the germs on the pile of magazines beside her. Even Luke's company would have been appreciated right then, but he was spending the night at Nana and Pop Pop's, no doubt basking in the love and attention they showered on their youngest grandchild. Kevin was gallivanting with Lily, who had invited him over for a second Thanksgiving dinner and Joan didn't want to know what else. She resorted to watching the clock -- 9:01 P.M. 9:02. 9:03.

At 9:15 the change in her pocket jingled, reminding her it was there. She went in search of a vending machine that sold something, anything for thirty-five cents.

She was headed back to her seat with a can of generic Coke when she noticed a familiar-looking girl with dirty blonde hair and a leather jacket by the emergency room entrance.

"Grace?"

"Joan?"

Before either could ask what the other was doing there, Joan saw Rabbi Polonski shuffling through the doorway, an angry, squirming toddler clutched to his chest. The brown-headed boy kicked and demanded, "Mama," his chubby arms extended towards the petite woman being ushered along by the rabbi's gentle, guiding hand. Another child, a girl, moved as if she were an extension of the woman's body. The strangeness of seeing the Snows with the Polks made them hard for Joan to recognize at first.

"We heard them screaming from across the street," Grace said.

If there was more, Joan missed it. Just for an instant, Ruthie looked up; the tousled hair had been swept back from her face, but bits of it were still matted to smears of blood on her chin, cheeks, and below the nostrils. Perspiration or tears had left trails through the mess, giving it a runny, ghoulish appearance that was heightened by the stark whiteness of her skin. Both eyes were glossy behind pink and swollen lids that fluttered then closed tight, a deep crease forming between her eyebrows whenever she took a step.

Someone's coat, probably the rabbi's because it was too large and too dark of a color, was draped around her, but she shivered violently. Each breath caught in her throat and started another tremor. She contracted, bearing down as though to separate in the effort, to force herself apart.

"Oh, God," Joan said. "Oh, God. Oh, God."

When she went to Ruthie and tried to touch her, Rabbi Polonski shook his head quickly, warning, "Careful. Careful of her arm."

_What happened?_, Joan almost asked. But she realized she already knew, at least in general. She wrung her hands and accidentally stepped on Grace's foot as she cleared out of the rabbi and Ruthie's path. She thought none of the Snows had even seen her, until an ER nurse had taken over for Rabbi Polonski, and Ruthie's answer to who, if anyone, should accompany her was a weak, anguished, "Joan."

"The little girl should stay here," the nurse said of June, though no attempts were made to pry mother and child apart. Not yet.

"Mama! I want Mama," Charlie, the one left behind, hollered from the confines of the rabbi's embrace.

* * *

After what seemed an eternity of waiting and a barrage of questions that, to Joan, were numb and pointless, it took the doctor a brief glance and some necessary prodding to make his first assessment: Ruthie's right arm was dislocated from its shoulder. "Can you tell me how this happened, ma'am?" he asked gently, his face close to hers as he felt the bones in her nose and cheeks and jaw, searching for other breaks. His clean latex gloves came away dappled with red.

Since the coat had been removed and laid aside, a task given to a young nurse who looked slightly terrified when the body underneath began to writhe as the fabric lifted, Ruthie's infrequent responses faded into total silence. She kept the injured limb fixed against her chest, left arm encircling it, and shied at any contact. The collar of her purple sweater hung loosely in the front, as if it had been grabbed and pulled. She hadn't spoken to the doctor at all.

"Ma'am?"

"Someone attacked her," Joan offered. "I think he yanked on her arm. I think that's probably how he did it." She was holding June, and the little girl gazed at her for a moment, dark eyes round and cloudy with secrets, pinky wet with saliva from sucking on it. There was nothing accusatory about the look, the one time June's attention had drifted from Ruthie, but Joan felt guilty anyway. She could have prevented this. Why hadn't she prevented this?

The medical jargon blurred together in her head, just a handful of terms like "x-rays," "pain reliever," and "sedative" making sense to her. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Ruthie would soon be crammed so full of drugs not a thing would faze her, not even her bones being popped back into place like Tinker Toys. But that small comfort was taken away when Ruthie mumbled something the doctor had to bend down and ask her to repeat.

"The baby," she whispered. "Check the baby."

Confused, the doctor glanced at June. "You mean the little girl?"

Ruthie's expression contorted, as if his ignorance were about to make her cry. "No. I'm pregnant."

While another slew of procedures was ordered, including an ultrasound and changes to medication, Joan tried to digest the news. It had never occurred to her, though proof rested in her lap, that a baby could come from a marriage such as Ruthie and Donovan's. Perhaps, because she hadn't known Ruthie before motherhood, hadn't seen the swell of a pregnant belly on her tiny frame, it was easier to believe that June and Charlie just _were_, just existed as their mother's children with no part of Donovan in them. But Ruthie had said he helped create them. And it must be true.

It didn't matter now, but Joan wondered how and when Ruthie would have told her about the pregnancy. They probably would have laughed and been excited as they discussed boy names and girl names and cutesy baby clothes.

"You'll need to return to the waiting room, miss," said one of the nurses that Joan had given up keeping track of. "Someone will call you when she gets back from radiology."

"Okay." Joan stood, more by reflex than willingness to leave. She wanted to say so many things to Ruthie, words of solace, words that might somehow make the situation bearable. The best she could think of as she paused by the gurney and spoke softly was, "Don't worry about the kids, Ruthie. I'll take care of them."

"Mama," June said, catching the rail of the gurney in her hand. She gripped it firmly, and Joan had to stop again, abrupt, before the bed jerked or rolled.

"Your mama needs to go with the doctors." Joan tried to work the girl's tiny but strong fingers loose. "They're gonna help her get better. C'mon, let go."

"No!"

"Junie Bear..."

"Don't call me that, you're not my mama! Mama!" June hit a frantic pitch, the loudest Joan had ever heard that bashful voice go. "Put me down!"

The protests became all-out screeches as Joan, assisted by the doctor and nurse, tangled with the angry child and finally won. June punished their thighs, her tough little sneakers landing more than one blow, Joan taking the brunt of it. Fat tears and a thread of saliva poured off of June's chin, the back of her throat visible as she bawled, open-mouthed, and screamed until no other noise would come, just her mute lips mouthing, "Mama."

Ruthie turned her face against the pillow, in the opposite direction of her daughter and Joan.

* * *

In the hall June went limp as a dishrag and let her sweaty forehead drop onto Joan's shoulder, at last taking a breath and, with it, making sound -- long, devastated sobs that drew stares from every patient and caregiver who passed. "Why can't I stay with her?" she asked, between gasps. "Mama gets _ascared_ when I'm not there."

Joan struggled with her own desire to cry, but a tear escaped into June's hair regardless. "She's safe here, I promise. No one's going to hurt her. I'll take you to her as soon as I can."

Charlie was asleep in the chair beside Rabbi Polonski, his body stiff and twitchy, as if he had continued fighting in his dreams, when Joan reached the waiting room. She sat next to Grace, and they regarded each other for a while, Grace's eyes wider than usual, Joan's hand moving like it had been programmed to a single activity: stroking June's back. She started at the nape of the girl's neck and went down a ways, flattening a cluster of dark curls, then patted, and began again at the top. Grace held out a can of soda, possibly to still the nervous motion.

"No, thanks," Joan said.

"It's yours. You handed it to me before you left."

"Oh." Joan had no memory of doing so. "You can have it."

"Thanks." Grace balanced the can on the flank of her boot, which was propped on her knee, and didn't open it.

"Sorry I stepped on your foot."

"Didn't hurt."

"Has my mom been by here yet?"

"No. I haven't seen her. What're you guys doing here?"

"My dad has kidney stones."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Yeah."

Grace looked tentatively at June, whose quiet snuffles were interrupted by an occasional chugging for air, then slid her gaze to the automatic doors that consumed another visitor to the ER. "How is she?"

Joan bit her lower lip, shook her head. She didn't trust her emotions just yet, and she didn't want to upset June. But the girl was already dozing, her eyes flicking back and forth behind heavy lids, just the whites showing, when Joan peeked down. And it seemed unfair to keep Grace and her father on pins and needles.

"They took her up to radiology for some x-rays. The doctor said her face is all right, but she had a bad nosebleed. That's why there was so much blood. And she'll have a-" Joan faltered, her tongue adhering to the roof of her mouth. Too bad about giving away that soda. "A black eye, probably. He didn't think any of her ribs were broken, but they need to make sure. He said- he said her shoulder's dislocated" - she puckered, her voice going higher, thinner - "and she can't have the strong drugs like morphine, they have to give her something else because she's pregnant. Or she was, anyway."

Rabbi Polonski bowed his head and murmured what sounded like a prayer, though Joan couldn't make out the words. Grace watched the floor until he was done. "My parents and I were on the porch telling the relatives good-bye," she said, and finally popped the tab on the soda, taking a swig. She offered Joan a drink and went on as it was accepted. "This car came speeding down the street and pulled into the driveway across from ours. The guy- I don't know his name..."

"Donovan."

"He got out and slammed the door and went inside the house. Ruthie? Is that right? She waited awhile before she took the kids in. I figured they were arguing. He's a real horse's ass, that dude. I was cutting through their backyard one day and I heard him yelling, but I never thought..." Grace shrugged, fiddling with the aluminum can, its sides crackling as she squeezed. "We went in after that, but then, later, I was helping my dad clean up and take out the garbage. We heard glass breaking over there. And they were hollering, mostly him. That must've been when it happened to her arm, 'cause she screamed like -- if stuff ever gave me chills, that would've. And the kids screamed too. Then he stomped out of the house, got in the car, and drove away."

The rabbi cleared his throat. "I normally wouldn't enter someone's home uninvited. But they weren't answering the doorbell." He rested his hand upon Charlie's small head. "I found them huddled together on the kitchen floor."

"It's my fault," Joan whispered. She blinked at the prickly sensation in the corners of her eyes.

"What?" Grace asked.

"This. He beats her, Grace, and I've known for such a long time, but I didn't do anything about it. I'm supposed to be her friend, and I just sat back and let him hurt her." Joan rocked the sleeping child in her arms. "God made a mistake. Ruthie deserved someone better than me."

"God?"

Joan swiped at her wet cheeks and dried her fingers on the leg of her jeans. Neither she nor the Polks said another word until a nurse came for Joan, an update to deliver: Ruthie had been returned to the ER.

"Here, give 'er to me," Grace said, when Joan looked for a place to deposit June.

"If she wakes up-"

"She'll be fine. Didn't you know? I'm a regular Mary Poppins with the rugrats. Must be my sunny disposition." Grace smiled wryly and carefully arranged June's lax form, each attempt to position a limb futile since they were flimsy as spaghetti noodles.

"Who could resist it?" Joan said. She stood. "Her name's June. And that's Charlie."

"Go on."

"Thanks, Grace."

"Go, Girardi."

* * *

Mercifully, Ruthie had slipped in and out of consciousness, her body (or possibly her spirit) too traumatized by the arm movement that was required during x-rays, and stayed out long enough for a closed reduction. That is, the ball of the humerus being put back in its joint socket, the nurse explained to Joan, demonstrating with interlocked knuckles. The sling had to be worn for at least three weeks, rest was crucial, ice reduced pain and swelling, and rehabilitation would be necessary if the shoulder was to heal properly and not become dislocated again.

No other broken bones had been found. "But," said the nurse grimly, her tone dropping as she peeked at Ruthie, who snoozed in a bed that was far too large for her, "there were plenty of old injuries, healed ones, if you can call them that. You her sister? Honey, try to talk some sense into her. Guy does something like this? She won't last with him."

"Yeah." Joan swallowed the lump in her throat and lied, "Sister."

When they were alone, the nurse squeaking off in her white, thick-soled shoes and leaving behind promises of a short return, Joan lifted the chair in the corner and quietly set it next to Ruthie's bed. She didn't use it. She felt the need to hover, like the stories she rolled her eyes at Helen for telling, about standing over newborn Kevin/Luke/Joan's crib to make sure they were breathing.

The blood was gone from Ruthie's face but not her hair. She had a bit of color now, the normal kind and also the darker, shadowy tint that told of a bruise in the works, ready to be stenciled in around her cheekbone and - up, over, around again - just below the eyebrow. Even in sleep her expression reflected pain. She scowled, moaning feebly when a dream or a memory suddenly made her jerk and force her eyes open. She stared at the ceiling for a moment then found Joan.

Keep it together, Joan told herself. "Hey," she said, and failed miserably at smiling.

Ruthie licked her teeth, her lips. She either needed water or was checking for gaps and gashes. She waited awhile before answering, "Hi."

"Are you thirsty? I can get you a drink."

"No, don't go."

"I won't. There's a pitcher." Joan pointed at the spouted plastic container and stack of Dixie cups turned upside down on the cart beside the bed. She filled one of the cups with water and felt stupid when she tried to hand it to Ruthie.

"That's okay." Ruthie reached with her left, discomfort obvious, try as she might to hide it. The cup jittered as she gulped from it then held it out for more. "Thank you, sweetie," she said, after three refills.

More alert now, she gazed about the room, slowly at first, but her concern mounted rapidly.

"June and Charlie are asleep in the waiting room," Joan said. "Grace and her dad are with them. They're the ones who brought you in. Do you... remember that?"

Ruthie's nod was faint, almost imperceptible.

"Well, he's a rabbi. And I'm pretty sure Grace can kick anyone's butt. They're the second best thing to having me as a baby-sitter."

The drowsy smile only made it halfway onto Ruthie's lips, inverting to a puzzled frown. "You were here when I came in," she said, uncertain, like maybe she had it wrong. "Why?"

"My dad's sick. He'll be okay. My mom and I brought him in."

"Helen's here?"

"Yeah. She doesn't know you are, though."

Ruthie sighed deeply and studied the stiff, uncomfortable-looking sling that wound around her upper body and behind her neck, immobilizing her arm and shoulder. She flexed her fingers very cautiously on that hand. They were puffy and looked as though they belonged to someone else, not Ruthie, whose hands were pretty and nimble and expressive, as if they, of all her parts, represented what she herself was as a whole.

"Does it still hurt a lot?" Joan asked quietly.

"Yeah," Ruthie said, the softness of her voice making her sound not much older than June. "But it's better than it was."

They fell into one of their pensive silences that were becoming common the closer they grew, which seemed ironic to Joan since they could both talk a thing to death. She opened her mouth to speak a few times but wasn't able to form the words. _Leave him, Ruthie. Leave him while you have the chance, while your kids still have a mother, while they're young enough to maybe grow up and not remember spending Thanksgiving night in a hospital._

How could she say it so that Ruthie would understand?

"I..." Ruthie began, her head lowered, chin tucked to chest. When she raised her head and met Joan's gaze, her eyes were dry but full of fear. "I can't stay with Don anymore, Joan. It's too much. He's gotten worse. And even if he hadn't, I just... I can't take it."

Joan scarcely breathed. She was afraid of jinxing the moment, of somehow reversing it and changing Ruthie's mind. But oh, how she wanted to do a victory dance or catch Ruthie in a hug and only let go when that frightened expression had disappeared for good. She improvised, reaching for a spot that was safe to touch - Ruthie's hair - and stroking it lightly.

"You don't have to."

"But what am I supposed to do? I'm his. He won't let me go." Tired, Ruthie trailed off, each blink slower than the last. "I don't have anywhere _to_ go."

"Yes, you do," Joan said quickly, frantically, "you're coming to my house. You and June and Charlie. Don can't bother you there. And that'll give you time to figure something out. My mom and I'll help, and my dad will too, when he gets home. I know I've done a lousy job so far, but they're really smart. They'll know what to do." She gripped the edge of the bed. "Please say yes, Ruthie. You need rest right now, is all. Once you've had that, you can decide where to go from there. Okay?"

Ruthie's nod was hard to make out again. "Okay," she said, and then more confidently, "Okay."

* * *

The doctor who performed Ruthie's ultrasound was no doctor. Although, Joan had heard titles like Healer and Physician applied to him, and she supposed that if anyone should be allowed to practice medicine without the proper credentials, God was the best choice. For old time's sake, he wore the guise of the doctor he had been when he wrapped her ankle after the washing machine incident a couple years earlier. But this time, other than a fleeting glance Joan's way, his attention was focused entirely on Ruthie. He kept his velvety, accented speech low, almost cooing, as he explained the procedure and asked if she was ready for him to begin.

Ruthie shut her eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"This might feel a bit cool, love," he said, when he eased her sweater up and prepared to spread gel on her exposed abdomen. Joan noticed a cherry-colored mark on the skin there, about the size of a fist, she estimated, not far above Ruthie's belly button. She took Ruthie's left hand and held it.

"All right. Now I'm placing the transducer on your belly. Just relax." Doctor God lowered what looked to Joan like a scanning device from a supermarket onto Ruthie's tightened middle. "Just relax," he repeated with a drawl. "That's a-girl. Let's see if we can get a look at your precious one..."

Joan watched him carefully, trying to judge whether it was a good sign or a bad sign that he had chosen this moment to appear. He wouldn't be so cruel as to pretend there might be a chance, that the pummeling Ruthie had taken wasn't too much for a fetus whose only defense was its mother's soft, slight body. Would he? The longer he navigated the transducer without commenting, Joan felt her hope dwindle. She saw a tear trickle from between Ruthie's closed lashes and lose itself in a nest of blonde hair.

Doctor God's grin, when it came, was big and bright. "There you are," he said to the monitor he had been watching. He stopped moving his arm and used his free hand to point to something on the screen. When Ruthie's eyes snapped open, he added, "She's tricky already. Playing hide and go seek. You'll have to be on your toes with her."

Joan practically tipped her chair over as she stood and leaned in for a closer look. All she saw were blobs of gray and black, like the special effects in a 1930's alien invasion movie. "Where is it?"

"Is it okay?" Ruthie said.

Doctor God outlined a minute dot on the screen with the edge of his thumbnail. "She's got a good heartbeat. See that? My, my, she's strong."

Ruthie slipped her hand from Joan's and covered her face with it, weeping.

"That's it right there?" Joan said, her own vision wet and blurry. "That thing that looks like a, uhh..."

"Honeybee," Doctor God offered.

"I was gonna say a freaky jelly bean, but yeah, honeybee works."

Through her tears, Ruthie laughed. It was short and breathy but a laugh nonetheless.

"Oh, thank God," she sighed, still concealing her eyes.

Wordlessly, the doctor straightened up the equipment. He gave no reaction to the statement, though Joan thought he might have laid his palm on Ruthie's stomach just a fraction longer than necessary when he had guided her sweater back into place. "You take care of yourself and" - he chuckled, a rich, exotic sound - "the little bee. She needs her mama to be healthy and safe. Get plenty of rest, take time to recuperate, and don't discourage the people who love you when they want to help. Can you do that for me, Ruthie?"

Ruthie tilted her head and peered up at him as if trying to recall a name to go with face she had not seen in years. "I think so," she said. "Yes."

"Good."

As he was leaving, Joan asked, "Is it really a girl?"

"You won't be able to tell that for a few more months," Ruthie answered knowingly. She gave the doctor an appreciative smile and waved at him.

"Right," he said.

Before he exited the room, God paused to wink at Joan.

* * *

At 12:30 A.M. Joan wandered through one last hospital corridor and, her search for Doctor God unsuccessful, plodded into the waiting room, yawning and expecting to see Grace and her father half-asleep on the elementary school style chairs that snaked along each wall. Instead, she found her mother, wide-awake and anxious, her foot tapping the floor nonstop as she stared blankly at the McDonald's commercial on television.

"I'm lovin' it!" sang the staticky voice narrating the ad.

"Mom."

Helen's back straightened and she started to get up, but Joan motioned for her to remain seated, taking a chair across from her, the ones on either side already occupied by June and Charlie's sleeping forms.

"Where's Grace and Rabbi Polonski?"

"I sent them home, they were worn out," Helen said distractedly. "They told me everything. The baby, everything. My God. How is Ruthie?"

"She's..." Fine? Good? Alive? Learning that the baby was unharmed, according to a machine that normally wouldn't be used until a fetus was several weeks older, had been a blessing, but it didn't mend the damage done to Ruthie, didn't get rid of the sling and the motley bruises that seemed hidden in every nook and cranny like the colorful plastic eggs hunted down by children on Easter morning. "She's all right, I guess. Pretty banged up. They fixed her shoulder, she's got this sling she has to wear. She didn't miscarry." Joan filled her lungs with stale hospital air and exhaled shakily. "I didn't even know she was pregnant till tonight."

Helen passed something back and forth in her palms, a small, round object that fit in the curve of her fingers. "I knew Don was trouble," she said to herself more than to Joan. "I knew it." She shook her head, curled her lip in disgust. "That son of a bitch. He must be out of his mind."

"He is."

"I didn't like him the first night we met him. He was too damn smug. And then I had that dream. And the way Ruthie refused to talk about him." As she spoke, Helen toyed with the object faster. And faster still. "I shouldn't have let it go this long."

Joan knew that feeling all too well.

"What's that?" she asked, sad and drained, her gaze on Helen's busy hands.

"I don't know. I was scooting June over, and I saw it clutched in her little fist. She's got a scratch, but it's not very deep." Helen held the thing up for Joan to see, its chipped glass nose and wide, unblinking eyes pointed towards her. A spidery crack traveled from the neck, where it had been broken off in jagged pieces, to the crown of butter-yellow hair, a shiny gold halo topping that.

Joan reached, took the ruined head of the figurine, and looked at it. She closed her fingers and squeezed, not caring about punctured flesh or a drop of blood and one or two stitches, with a cute butterfly Band-Aid stuck on, for safety's sake. Trivial, those. Child's play. "It's from one of Ruthie's angels," she said. "She collects them."

Joan told her story then -- every bit of it: how Donovan's voice went slick and derisive when he talked to Ruthie, as if each syllable was meant to cut her down, chew her up, spit her out. How Ruthie managed to be there and yet not be there, the light gone from her eyes when he looked at her. The slap and how it sounded and how hard it was. The argument in the music room and how it had probably figured into Ruthie being beaten and left alone, just her babies to tend to her.

"Don't blame yourself, Mom," she finished. "I knew more than you did. I made it worse."

Helen was on her feet in an instant, gathering Joan into a firm hug. "Now, you listen to me. None of this is your fault." She tilted back to look at her daughter, taking her by the chin. "You understand? Don's the one to blame. Don't you ever let a man make you think something like this is your fault."

Joan had heard the lecture before, but she made no exasperated comments this time. In fact, she had given those up the night her mother came to her room, closed the door, and revealed a secret that they seldom mentioned again, though once in a while they glimpsed it in the other's face or a brief, unconscious mannerism.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she said, gripping Helen's cardigan. "I wanted to."

"I know."

"Ruthie's being released tonight," Joan said, after a moment. "She says she can't stay with Don anymore. But she's so scared. I'm worried she'll change her mind. I told her she could come home with us, that we'd help her."

Helen's silence lasted longer than Joan anticipated.

"Mom? We're her friends. She can't go back to that house."

"No. No, you're right. It's not safe for her there." Helen brushed the bangs from Joan's forehead and kissed the spot. "She'll come home with us."


	12. I: The Voice, II: The Sound & The Fury

**Author's Note: **Something I forgot to mention in the last chapter... it didn't occur to me when I wrote this that Thanksgiving is Joan's birthday (or at least sometime in there). And I didn't want to change it or add that it was her birthday (because how depressing would that be?), so I left it as is. I guess in my world Joan's birthday is a few days after Thanksgiving, lol. And TeeJay: thanks for posting those lyrics! I only know Alanis's really early stuff, so I wasn't aware of that song, but I like the lyrics. You're right, they do fit this story. Very cool. I love making connections between songs and stuff I'm reading/characters I like, so that kinda made my day for you to bring that up. Thanks again! And thanks to all you other reviewers too. :)

**

* * *

**

**Part I: THE VOICE**

Ruthie lingered in the doorway of Helen and Will's bedroom, watching her children sleep in the big, unfamiliar bed, their dark heads nestled onto clean pillowcases, their bodies snuggled under clean sheets that had been rummaged from the linen closet. Helen would not be talked out of giving up her room, insistent that she would never get to sleep with Will's side of the bed empty, anyway, and would be fine sharing with Joan. When Joan wanted to know what was wrong with Luke's vacant room and Helen had said that was for the children, Ruthie felt obliged to save the younger girl's privacy, assuring the Girardis she would be fine sleeping with June and Charlie. No, it wouldn't be too uncomfortable or crowded; yes, she was positive. When it came right down to it, Ruthie wanted the girl and boy close to her. She couldn't let them wake in the morning to strange surroundings, no Mama in sight. Not after the evening they had had.

She went back for another round of kisses, removing Charlie's fist from his eye, caressing the Looney Tunes Band-Aid on June's palm and shedding more than one tear. She was tempted to stir them, to jiggle them until their droopy eyes opened just long enough for her to apologize for the jeopardy they had been in while going to and from the hospital without car seats. Why hadn't she remembered to switch those damn things to her car? She usually did immediately after the kids were unbuckled, because it was so easy to forget once you went inside. And then she had gone and done exactly that, forgotten, tonight of all nights. Real smart, she told herself. It didn't matter that she had been rushed to the ER by neighbors who wouldn't have known to grab the car seats, anyway. She should have remembered.

"Mama's sorry," she breathed by one tiny ear and a second, tinier ear, two kisses on each.

This time she managed to snap off the light and step out, the door cracked to allow in a soft glow from the hallway bulb. Her aching muscles and stiff joints yearned for the respite of a mattress and warm blanket, but she wouldn't be able to sleep yet, even if they got it. Her mind was too full. Of memories, doubt, fear, anger. And so, so many questions that a brain dulled by whatever those pills were she had been given didn't seem capable of answering.

Helen and Joan were awake also. Ruthie heard them downstairs murmuring to each other, their voices hushed as if the regular inhabitants of the house, the men who rounded out the Girardi family, were tucked in on the second floor and needn't be disturbed. Helen had expressed some concern that Kevin was not home from his date and no messages were left on the machine, save a hang up around 1 A.M. As she passed by the boy's darkened bedroom, Ruthie couldn't help feeling relieved that he and Luke and Will were gone. The three of them were nice guys, friendly, their smiles and hellos done at a distance, as though they sensed not to come too close, not to loiter near someone else's territory. But her pride couldn't handle anymore pitying looks from people she didn't know that well. It was embarrassing enough having Helen and Joan see her like this.

Not that she had gotten the nerve up to see what "like this" was. She had avoided catching a glimpse of herself in Helen's rearview on the quiet ride to Euclid Avenue, and her earlier trip to the bathroom had been brief, more precaution, because of a queasy stomach, than anything. But sooner or later she would have to look.

She decided on later and went downstairs, where Joan and Helen, bless them, did not lapse into silence but turned to her as if it were perfectly normal to have her in their kitchen at going on two in the morning. At the same time, they both offered her the chair between them, Joan on the left, Helen on the right.

"Can I get you anything?" Helen asked, her voice overlapping Joan's, who wanted to know: "Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

Ruthie tried not to smile too wide because her puffy eye wouldn't stay open when she did. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm not that hungry."

"You sure?" Joan had moved to the refrigerator, snatched a bag of Doritos off the top, and pulled a 2 liter of Coca-Cola from the bottom rack inside.

"Umm..."

"I doubt very much Ruthie wants to eat junk and get a caffeine buzz at this hour, Joan," Helen admonished.

"Actually." Ruthie watched Joan fill a glass with the dark amber liquid. "I think I will have some Coke. Just a smidge."

"Ha!" Joan said triumphantly, taunting her mother. She walked the first glass to the table and placed it in front of Ruthie, then went back to pour another.

Within minutes, they each had their own stacks of Doritos situated on napkins from the basket on the table, and Helen was sipping Coke out of a mug with Joan, Kevin and Luke's picture on the front, which, when Ruthie made a comment, she said belonged to Will. Joan's attempts to be mortified didn't fool Ruthie. She knew a daddy's girl when she saw one. It was sweet, that father-daughter relationship -- something she had always wanted for her daughter. Not weekend/holiday visits and eventually no visits at all.

She crunched into her final tortilla chip, forcing away that train of thought. Discreetly, she licked the orangey powder off her fingertips.

"More?" Joan held the bag at the ready.

"Nah, better not. I don't have a toothbrush." That, and her jaw was beginning to feel sore. Ruthie reckoned that came from being gripped too hard. She would have to check for bruises on either side of her face, the kind that looked like dirty smudges, probably located a bit below the ears and right on the curve of jawbone, the latter of which must be enticing, must seem an easy target to latch onto during an argument, because she had found those bruises so many times before. "Y'all will have to steer clear of me in the morning, as it is."

"We've got extra toothbrushes. We're pretty sure Kevin stopped brushing altogether sometime in the late '90s. He and Luke never use the freebies from the dentist. There's, like, ten of them in the medicine cabinet, still in the package."

"It's true," Helen admitted, shaking her head. "And speaking of Kevin." She dusted off her fingers and reached for the cordless phone, which chirruped persistently from its station on the wall. _Beep_ went the talk button when she pushed it. "Hello?"

"You want a toothbrush now, Ruthie? I'll get it." Joan was on her feet, no answer required. "You need pajamas too. Oh my God, nothing I own is going to fit you."

"Hello?" Helen repeated.

"That's okay," Ruthie said to Joan. She gestured to her sweater and jeans and, just then, realized there was dried blood on her left sleeve, near the ribbed cuff she had swiped under her nose, at some point, to stop the gushing. She lowered her arm quickly. "I'm fine in this."

"Nuh-uh. You can't sleep in jeans. Come on, we'll find a pair of drawstrings."

As they were headed for the stairs, Ruthie having been discouraged from neatening the table, Joan called over her shoulder, "We're going to my room, Mom. What'd Kevin say?"

"Wasn't him. Another hang up."

* * *

Alone in the kitchen, Helen went to the back door and made certain she had locked it, though she recalled doing so about half an hour earlier, right after securing every other possible entrance. "Kevin," she sighed, gazing at the patch of pavement that stretched from garage to house, lit like a runway, a row of miniature lanterns on both sides. She contemplated shutting them off, but Kevin would need the light should he ever decide to return home and be skinned alive for not checking in.

She lingered there a moment, then drew shut the tiny curtain that dangled from a rod above the window in the door.

* * *

It was difficult but Ruthie was able to unzip her jeans, shimmy out of them, step into the pajama bottoms Joan had resurrected from deep within a pile on her closet floor and claimed not to have worn since she was thirteen, and guide the waistband up around her hips. But no amount of one-handed skill made it possible to tie the drawstring so the loose, pink and lime striped material wouldn't drop back down to her ankles. Clutching the strings in her fist, stretching them taut, she said, "Joan."

At once, Joan's bedroom door opened and the girl peeked in. "Yeah?"

"I got them on, but..." Ruthie displayed the problem, waggling the knotted ends of the strings. How pathetic, she thought, to have to ask help for such a thing. How utterly pathetic. But Joan didn't need any further explanation, and her hands were swift yet careful as they formed a neat little bow against Ruthie's stomach.

"Is that too tight?"

"No."

"I can get you a T-shirt," Joan offered, for the third or fourth time.

Ruthie still declined. Even with assistance, getting her ill-treated top off and another on was a challenge she did not feel like confronting. And it raised too many questions. What would she wear tomorrow and the day after? And what about the end of Thanksgiving break when school would resume? What then? She couldn't hide out with the Girardis forever, dressed in baggy pajama bottoms and a bloody sweater. Her possessions, her life and the children's too, all of that was in a house across town.

She stifled a sigh and finally looked at Joan, whose eyes were big and full of concern, as if she had just read every thought in Ruthie's head. Besides June, no one else had ever looked at Ruthie quite that way. She wondered how it came to be. How, of all the random places, she had been plunked into Arcadia and met a seventeen-year-old girl who knew her better in less than two months than anyone had for the past eleven years.

"I, uh, put some stuff out for you in the bathroom," Joan said, her voice soft. "But you can use what you want. And if there's something you need, holler."

"Thank you, sweetheart." Ruthie caught Joan by the hand and placed a kiss there, on the back, ever so lightly. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

* * *

The spacious upstairs bathroom with its moderate lighting and warm, autumn color scheme would have been a perfect haven if not for the mirror above the sink. Ruthie's first instincts were to lock the door and run the tap, a trick that, when she was lucky, bought her a little extra time alone. But she didn't have to do that here, she reminded herself. She only had to build up the courage to examine her reflection.

It wasn't as bad as she feared it might be, judging by everyone else's reaction. The left half of her face was a different shade than the right, the raccoon-ish black eye the worst of it, with pinpricks of red mixed in like mock freckles, strange and bright. Her nose didn't have a bump, didn't even seem swollen. She had been worried about that. It was her ratty hair that disturbed her most.

She cleaned her teeth first, doing a poor job of it, the stiff bristles on the new toothbrush Joan had opened for her, and the soreness in her gums and teeth (amazing how pain in a certain area of the body could spread to others), making her effort a short one. Then she set to work detangling her hair with the paddle brush that probably belonged to Joan, if the tumbleweed of dark brown in the wastebasket was any indication. Her arm tired within seconds, and each snare she came upon frustrated her until she would have loved nothing more than to hurl the brush at the mirror and rid it of that image, that wincing, pitiful woman she loathed.

_If that's how you look to Donovan_, she thought, _it's no wonder he hits you._

She yanked at another stubborn knot once, twice, and gave up on the third try, sinking onto the closed lid of the toilet seat and lowering the brush to her lap, defeated. She lost track of how long she sat with her palm flat against her belly, fingers splayed, glazed eyes pointed at the mosaic floor tiles, but it must have been a while. A tentative knock on the door was followed by Joan's voice inquiring, "Ruthie? Are you okay?"

Ruthie shook her head.

"Ruthie." Pause. Joan rapped harder, faster. "I- I'm coming in." The knob turned hesitantly and the hinges creaked as the girl entered, an uncertain expression on her face. Her brow furrowed at the sight of Ruthie's slouched posture, dispirited frown, and the troublesome brush now interwoven with blonde, like cobwebs amongst the bristles.

"I can't-" Ruthie's words broke off, but she left it at that. _I can't_ summed up nicely what she was feeling.

Like she had before, Joan took charge without making a fuss. She let the brush be passed to her and waited as Ruthie rotated her knees and then the rest of her body to the side, her back to Joan instead of the porcelain tank. Standing between tub and toilet, Joan sifted her fingers through Ruthie's hair, drawing it behind her shoulders, and began with the ends. "I should have given you a comb," she said apologetically, when she reached the strands that had plagued Ruthie, the ones fused together with blood.

"You should have given me scissors."

"Hey." Joan sounded alarmed. "We'll fix it." She hurried to retrieve a comb from the drawer beneath the sink, wetted it with a stream of faucet water, then resumed her task.

Ruthie shut her eyes and concentrated on the tingling in her scalp and the occasional prickle when a rough spot interrupted the rhythm of Joan's hands. The last person to do this for her, to labor so cautiously, as if her hair required the finest of care and gentlest touch, was her mother. It was a pleasurable sensation Ruthie had long forgotten. She parted her lips and exhaled, soft and slow. Though she hadn't meant it to, her story tumbled out, along with that wispy breath.

"We went up to Baltimore, Don and the kids and I. His parents live there, and his mom's been pestering him to visit since we moved to Maryland. She and I don't get along, I don't know why." Ruthie gave a quick, mirthless laugh. "Yes, I do. She hates me. But I went. It's Thanksgiving." She lifted her hand in a makeshift shrug and didn't bother adding that she had no choice, holiday or otherwise. "Anyway. I lost my temper over something she said, and I made Don... _so_ angry. We left early because of me. It might not have been as bad if that hadn't happened.

"I don't remember what time it was when we got home, but the kids were asleep and I put them in bed so they wouldn't hear. I figured he'd be mostly talk. He never... beat me while I was pregnant with June and Charlie. Not really. Still, I didn't want to go through that -- him cussing me out, and me... just sitting there. Sometimes that's almost as bad as the other. So I stayed in June's room for a while. And I was looking at her and thinking about what you said. That the way Don treats me affects her and Charlie too." Ruthie's chest heaved, but she held on. "I've been thinking about that a lot lately. What if my little girl, my sweet, innocent baby girl, one day meets a man like her father, someone who slaps her and calls her names, and she thinks it's okay? Thinks it's normal? Because of me?" She shuddered, continuing in a whisper. "I couldn't live with myself."

"That won't happen," Joan said, her voice unsteady and far away.

Ruthie cleared her throat, gathering her composure. She reached back with her left hand, finding the side of Joan's leg and patting it. "I want June to be like you. You're the bravest person I know."

"You're brave, Ruthie."

"No, I'm not. I keep hiding. I would've stayed in June's room all night if he hadn't come to get me. That's the first thing he said: 'You can't hide in here forever, Ruth Anne.' Then he just stood in the doorway and waited." Ruthie brought her hand to her forehead and rubbed, wishing the memory of Donovan's broad-shouldered form, solid, hulking, half lit by the lamp in the hall, wasn't such a vivid one. She expected to look up and see him glaring at her, even now. "I didn't think he was going to let me past at first. When I did get out and shut the door, he shoved me into the living room and started in. _F_-this, _F_-that, I oughta break your goddamn neck." She practically gagged, the taste of Donovan's words bitter in her mouth, revolting. "I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my face and said I wasn't going anywhere."

She demonstrated, covering the lower portion of her face with her palm, thumb stretched towards one ear, remaining fingers aimed at the other. She let go quickly, her posture sagging again, the moment relived. Only, Donovan had not been so generous as to release her. "That's how I got the bloody nose. And that made him madder. Because I bled on his new shirt. So he yelled at me for that. I told him to keep his voice down, he'd wake the kids. He shook me and yelled, good, the kids should get a look at what a worthless piece of trash they had for a mother. And, Joan, he started dragging me to the hall like he really meant it and was going to wake them up."

Ruthie unclenched her fist, realizing her fingernails were about to puncture skin. "I fought him then. And I shouted at him because I knew it would tick him off and maybe he'd forget what he was doing. Well, it worked." With a hasty gesture, she indicated the ripening bruise on her cheekbone, eyelids, and part of her temple. "I fell into that big wooden hutch along the wall, the one with most of my angels on it. You know which one I'm talking about?"

"Y-yeah."

"A couple of them got knocked off and broke. He actually stopped and looked at them, his elbow cocked and his hand up in the air, ready to hit me again. He had an epiphany, I guess. You should have seen how happy it made him. He had this little smirk while he smashed the rest of them, like he was so clever." Ruthie clucked her tongue. "What's so clever about that? All I could think was he must be pretty slow not to have thought of it a long time ago. I've had those things for years, and he knows how much they mean to me. He even bought a few on birthdays and Christmas. Maybe that's all they were, something to use against me later. I didn't try to stop him though, and he finally got bored. Went back to smashing _me_.

"The rest is kind of fuzzy. I know I ran from him and ended up in the kitchen, but I don't remember how I got on the floor." Ruthie had begun to lose steam, the fervor of her words waning. She didn't want to continue, but she had already come this far. No point in turning back. "While I was down, he... he hit my stomach, or maybe he kicked me, I don't know. Whatever it was, he did it deliberately. And you were right about this." She pointed to the sling. "He yanked me up by my arm -- Christ Jesus, it _hurt_. He kept yelling at me to 'shut up! stop screaming!' I guess he didn't realize what he'd done." Or he had and didn't care, his fretfulness and wide-eyed concern after going a bit too far, testing her body a bit too much, ancient history, same as his first tearful vow never to hit her but that one time.

"June and Charlie," Ruthie said, puckering, having to start over. "I didn't see them come in. How much they saw? Who knows." She lifted her hand half-heartedly, and it flopped back into her lap. "They screamed so loud. That's what made him stop. He was holding me up and then he just... wasn't there, just dropped me. Next thing I remember is the hospital."

"Oh, Ruthie..."

Ruthie spun in Joan's direction, her eyes brimming with hot tears. She touched her belly where Donovan had delivered his punishment. Because that's what it was; he had wanted to punish her. Unsatisfied with the results he was getting, he found a new method. "How could he, Joan?" she asked. "It's his baby inside me, and he did it anyway."

The comb forgotten, its purpose served, slipped from Joan's fingers and landed noiselessly in the dense rust-orange yarn of the bathroom rug, a match to the lid cover Ruthie sat upon. Glistening streaks of moisture had dried on the girl's cheeks and fresh ones were forming. She knelt, putting herself at a level below Ruthie instead of towering above her.

"He is sick," Joan said. "He's a sick, dirty coward, and he wants you to be as miserable as he is. But you can't let that happen, Ruthie. Remember the little girl who went trick-or-treating with us? Remember what she said to you? Your soul is beautiful. I know for a _fact_ she was right. Trust me. Don knows it too. That's why he does this to you. 'Cause he's ugly inside." She clasped Ruthie's hand. "That's the only reason."

Ruthie studied the girl's earnest face and found comfort there, and release. For the first time that evening and the second time since she had met Joan, she allowed herself a good long cry. She held nothing back.

* * *

**Part II: THE SOUND & THE FURY**

2:15 A.M. Helen squinted at the Roman numerals on the clock face and recounted. If the timepiece hadn't been a gift from Will's favorite aunt and uncle, she would have taken the thing off the kitchen wall and replaced it with a normal clock, one with real numbers she could decipher. But yes, she decided, it did say 2:15. And that was her cue for bed.

Sleep was probably a hopeless fancy, what with being wired on Coke, worried about Kevin, worried about Ruthie, worried about Will, and exiled to Luke's bedroom for the night. But at least she might doze once or twice, and that was better than no rest at all.

Yawning, she placed her, Ruthie's, and Joan's cups in the sink, shook her head and rolled shut the bag of Doritos, then balled the napkins that had served as plates and tossed them into the garbage. She was about to flick off the kitchen light when a knock at the back door startled her and made her say, "Well, it's about time."

She shuffled back through the kitchen, her slippers scuffing the floor, the breezy fabric of her robe fanning out behind her. "You may be a grown man," she grumbled as she went, "but I am still your mother, and I need to know where you are. Learn not to lose your house key, maybe then I'll trust you."

Her hand was on the dead bolt, turning it while she swept the curtain aside to peer out the window at her son. She froze in the middle of reaching for the door knob. Quickly, she fumbled with the lock, the bolt returning to its shaft with a _thunk_. She retreated a step, dropping the curtain and hoping she hadn't been seen by Donovan Snow, who waited on the other side of the door, his body looming as he leaned on the jamb like an actor filming a passionate scene, he and his lover about to share a farewell kiss.

"Hey, uh, Helen? It's Don Snow. You know, Ruth An- Ruthie's husband. Sorry to bug you so late." His knuckles went rat-a-tat on the windowpane. His voice was muffled and had a vague slur. "I was going by and saw your lights on back here. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Helen clutched the sides of her robe, winding them around her fingers. She felt a hot, overwhelming panic about to erupt in her chest, but she forced it away, reined it in before it became paralyzing. She would not be cowed by this man. This bully. She was tempted to open the door just so she could slam it in his face. She opted for frowning at him through the thin glass partition.

"I know who you are," she said, standoffish but not hateful. As if speaking to the pesky neighbor boy who used to wait on the porch for Joan when she was ten years old and wanted nothing to do with him. "My family and I are in for the night. Whatever you need, I'm sure Will would be happy to discuss it with you tomorrow."

"Well, it's about Ruth Anne. So I'd rather talk to you."

"What about her?"

"She's- could you open the door?"

Helen waited.

Donovan raked at his sleek black hair, the gold in his wedding band catching the light, glinting like the eye of some nocturnal creature. A screech owl, a fox. He shifted his weight; his amiable expression wavered. "You happen to know where she is? Me and her, we had a little misunderstanding earlier. She took off." He glanced sideways, distracted by a noise or a shadow, his turned head making him difficult to hear. "I'm looking for 'er."

_A little misunderstanding_. Son of a bitch.

"I haven't seen her, Don."

"She's a liar. Whatever she told you I did, it's crap. It's total b.s."

"I said I haven't seen her."

"Just open the door. I know she's in there." Donovan raised both of his arms, planting his hands on either side of the doorway, high up. Making himself bigger.

"Go away, Don. It's the middle of the night. Ruthie's not here."

Donovan's jaw slackened then jutted forward, the white ridges of his bottom teeth visible just above his meaty lower lip. He slit his eyes at her, black pupils glittering. His breath made a faint haze on the windowpane. He didn't budge.

"I'm calling the police," Helen said.

"You do that. Be sure and tell 'em they gotta come and arrest one of their own men."

Fuming, Helen dropped the curtain again. She took a step backwards and watched for Donovan's silhouette to disappear from the flowered drape, which worked like a scrim, the outside light obscuring her and emphasizing him. But to be safe, to be absolutely certain he wasn't able to see in, she used the length of her outstretched, opened-palm hand to off the entire panel of light switches on the wall, flooding them both in darkness.

She heard him swear. And then something, his foot or his shoulder or his whole body, rammed against the door, accompanied by the sound of wood splitting. She jerked into motion, giving a quick leap in the air and darting towards the kitchen, nearly colliding with the wall, skirting the hall tree and its oak bench that almost claimed her kneecap. "Oh!" she cried.

Another dull thud.

Helen made it as far as the first row of cupboards before she realized the cordless phone was not in its base. She felt suddenly off-kilter, as if a rug had been snatched from beneath her feet or she had neared the edge of a cliff too quickly. God, where had she left it? She listened to the crackling of glass as it was busted from its frame, the tinkle it made as it fell soft, chime-like, the clunk of the dead bolt that followed, and she replayed in her mind the previous half hour or so. She had answered the phone thinking it was Kevin on the line; she had kept it with her after Ruthie and Joan went upstairs; she had gone into the den, the downstairs bathroom, the living room and back to the kitchen...

There. There it was, on the cushion of the chair where Ruthie sat when she and Joan had joined Helen at the table. She lunged for it, had it in her grasp, pressed the wrong button before finding _Talk_, the tiny display screen and number keys illuminated by a pale green glow. Her fingers shook. 9-1...

Before her thumb depressed the second 1, a powerful set of hands clamped hold of her arm, one at her wrist, the other at her elbow. She sucked air between her teeth, reacting to fright and a stab of pain, and lost her grip on the phone. It bashed against the table, bounced to the floor, the battery hatch popping loose, vanishing under the fridge. Donovan released Helen's elbow and scooped the phone up, looking to see if the call had gone through. It hadn't.

"Let go of me," she snarled, trying to wrench free of him, "and get out of my house. I swear to God-"

She had no clue what she was about to swear to, and she never finished the thought. Donovan surprised her by letting her wrist go.

"Look," he said, "let's just calm down. Let's just calm the fuck down. We can settle this real simple. All I want's my wife and my kids. That's it. This can go real smooth. I'll get 'em, we'll leave, I'll replace your window -- hell, I'll pay for a whole freakin' new door and install it myself. I like Girardi. I'll explain to him and apologize, and it'll be fine. Just give me Ruth Anne."

He had been drinking. Heavily. He was rank with it, a hard liquor smell that permeated the room and seemed to steal the oxygen in it, making Helen dizzy. The fluorescent bulb above the sink was on; he stood in the pool of bleached light, a subtle sway to his big frame. He wore no coat, only a trim-fitting Polo shirt, dark blue or black, the long sleeves pushed up, ready for action.

"Go to Hell." Helen gazed past him, judging the distance to the telephone in the living room and if she could make it. "When my husband finds out you're here, he'll-"

"Save it. I know where Will is." Donovan craned his neck and bunched his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, his eyes roving, pretending to search. "And it ain't here," he added.

Helen's fortitude was failing her, slipping away the harder she held onto it, wet sand through the cracks of her fingers. She tried to breathe normally, but her lungs seized at the air they got and demanded more. She had not been claustrophobic for years, not until this moment, with him flashing that smug, triumphant smile. He took something out of the back pocket of his jeans and toyed with it.

"You're married to a cop. Don't you know how useful one of these can be?" He held it up -- his badge. Police: Arcadia, Maryland. It shined in his hand, the ultimate proof that he was in control. "You can find out all kindsa shit with it. Like when I checked at the station to see if my missing wife had made any calls" - he shook his head, indicating she hadn't - "Good girl. And while I was there, buddy of mine asked if I'd heard about poor Girardi in the hospital, with kidney stones. Said the wife phoned in sick for him. Well, that was ironic since I was planning to check the hospital next. Guess what they told me there? That Ruth Anne had gone to a 'shelter.'"

"Bull," he snorted. "She may be one dumbass little bitch, but there's no way in hell she'd take the kids someplace like that. I know her too well." He flaunted the badge again. "Lady at the desk changed her tune when I showed her this. She got all flustered and kept apologizing for only knowing that Ruth Anne had left with some friends. Couple of women."

_Women._

"But the best part." He was gloating as he reached for his back pocket a second time, bringing forth a slim cell phone, expensive from the looks of it. "It was Ruth Anne who gave herself away. I didn't even have to hunt for your number. She's got it saved: H & J. Didn't get an answer the first time I tried, but I knew for sure she was here the second time. Heard her talking to your daughter in the background." He suddenly clenched his teeth and squeezed the cell phone until his fist vibrated. "She left this in my car. I bought her the goddamn thing so I'd know where she's at, but she's always forgetting it or some stupid shit. 'Oh, I turned it off, Donnie. I'm so, so sorry...'"

As he was occupied with mocking Ruthie, his voice shrill and whiny, Helen ran. Her plans were sketchy, ill-formed, probably destined to fail. But she made it to the living room entrance, charging like the devil was at her heels. The devil clad in suede oxfords that thundered on the floorboards in swift but not frantic pursuit. He was confident he could stop her. Joan beat him to it.

"Mom?"

"Stay up there and lock the door," Helen ordered, before she had even glanced over to see that the warning came too late. Her daughter and Ruthie were already on the middle landing of the staircase and descending farther, their expressions startled and confused, mirroring one another, though Ruthie's was more apprehensive.

"What?" Joan said. Then she spotted him.

* * *

Joan lurched forward, coming to such an abrupt standstill that the top half of her body tried to keep moving down the stairs, unaware her legs would not follow. She grabbed the banister at her left, at the same time feeling Ruthie bump her on the right. They had been walking so closely together, their arms touching, their feet in synch. And they had seen Donovan together too. He was approaching from the dining room, on Ruthie's side of the banister, also the side of her injured arm, and Joan's first concern was for that, for just how far he would able to reach and how much damage he could inflict from where they stood.

But his pace slowed. He didn't rush at them or put his hand through the gaps in the carved wooden bars by their legs, grabbing. For quite a while, all he and anyone else did was stare. When he finally did draw nearer, edging around Helen, who seemed transfixed, her mouth slightly ajar, he went as far as the bottom step and stayed there, one foot on it, his elbow propped on the flourished end of the handrail: Rhett Butler gazing up at Scarlett O'Hara on the steps of Tara.

"Christ, Ruth Anne," he said, disbelieving, "look at you."

Ruthie's body pressed against Joan, rigid at first, then limp and yielding, as if everything below her skin had been stretched taut and released with the snap of a rubber band. Small and trembling, her hand burrowed into Joan's. Joan held it.

Donovan studied Ruthie, intent on her clothes, the sling, and her battered face, still pretty beneath the bruises. "What happened to your arm?" he asked.

The baffled way he spoke infuriated Joan. He acted like he really had no clue, like maybe he expected to hear about a skiing accident, a bone-crunching tumble down a steep slope. "You dislocated it, asshole," she said, hurling the words at him. A shame she couldn't throw a punch with the same ferocity. But she was sure as hell ready to try. "You pulled her bone out of socket! Does that mean _anything_ to you?"

Of course it didn't.

"Fuck off. I wasn't talking to you, you nosy brat. You weren't even there. I didn't do that. I might've tugged on her, but I didn't-"

"Yes, you did," Ruthie said quietly, almost drowned out by his denial, its volume increasing the longer he continued. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she was able to meet his eye. She took deep, gasping breaths. "You did, Don, and then you ran away. Where? To a bar? How much did you have to drink to forget about your son and daughter and how scared they were?"

"It was you who woke them up, you and your loud mouth!" He shook his head disappointedly. "Used to be you didn't make a sound. Used to be you knew when to shut the hell up. See why I don't want you hanging around with these bitches?" He jabbed his finger at Joan, at Helen. "You're starting to act just like them. Think you're hot shit, huh? Real tough? That why you gotta stand there and hold someone's hand? Jesus, what a baby."

"Stop it, Donnie. Stop and... go home... go back to the bar. Wherever. Just leave me alone."

"Okay. I'll go." He paused, giving everyone hope so he could have the pleasure of stealing it back. "But you're coming with me. Get June and Charlie, and get your little ass down these stairs."

Joan tightened her grip on Ruthie's hand, afraid it might slip away.

"Now, Ruth Anne," Donovan commanded.

"No."

"What?"

"No. I'm not going with you."

Donovan brought his other foot up, fully on the step now. He scrunched his face and turned his ear towards Ruthie, as if he were hard of hearing. "What then? You're leaving me? Taking my kids and moving in here, that it? Explain it to me, Ruth Anne." But he kept going. "You really are a goddamn idiot, you know that? These people don't care about you!"

"Yes, we-"

He cut Joan off. "Soon as they find out what a sneaky, lying bitch you are, they won't want anything to do with you. I don't even know why _I_ put up with you. You got everything a woman could want: a big house, fancy car, nice clothes, damn job you don't need, all this shit that costs an arm and a leg but you don't bother using" - he reared back suddenly and pitched the cell phone he had been holding at Ruthie, overhanded, the way a major leaguer might throw a fastball - "and none of it is good enough! You still gotta pull a stunt like this."

The cell phone had missed its intended target and smashed on the banister, half its silver casing whizzing in one direction, the other half spewing parts that clinked and skittered away like bugs when they hit the stairs. Ruthie was turned inward, her face buried against the side of Joan's arm, her breath warm and rapid on the skin there.

Donovan held up his hand, signaling for Helen to back off when she began to move in a stiff, forced manner. He had an advantage where he stood. A single step backward blocked her path, two or three forward put him directly in front of Ruthie and Joan. He kept the position and waited until Ruthie peered at him with one eye, the one he hadn't blackened. He snapped his fingers then pointed at his feet. "C'mon," he said.

"I'm not going with you," she repeated. She was resolute, but her voice had that alarmingly young quality again, so vulnerable it made Joan ache and want to protect her twice as fiercely. "I've lived this way too long. And now our children are getting dragged into it. It's not fair to them. They deserve better."

"Better than me?"

"Better than us. Together," she whispered.

Donovan's eyes narrowed, boring into Ruthie. When her gaze stayed fixed on him instead of roaming elsewhere or dropping to the floor, he gave a quick sniff. It sounded final. "Well," he said, "I can fix part of that problem."

Joan's reflexes were keen, every muscle tensed, every tooth prepared to bite, every fingernail ready to scratch, to dig deep in flesh and leave marks. One for Ruthie, then June, then Charlie, and a couple for her and Helen too, just because. On the rare occasions when she wasn't getting creamed at dodge ball during P.E., she felt a similar keyed up, heightened sense of perception that told her where to step and when. She knew what Donovan's next move would be before he made it, and she positioned herself in front of Ruthie, shielding her as he sprung up the stairs.

It worked. For about three seconds. Donovan raised his elbow and nudged Joan aside, her hip colliding with the banister. She cried out, more surprised than hurt, and heard Ruthie do the same as he caught her by the shoulders, paying no mind to her tender arm, jerking her right off her feet for a moment. He swung her around, his back turning to Joan so she couldn't see, could only listen to another of Ruthie's cries, feeble and birdlike, a mournful cooing in the depths of the throat. Joan latched onto his flexed bicep, tugging, but he ripped it away from her.

"Let her go, you bastard!" she shouted, thumping her fist against his shoulder repeatedly.

Donovan turned enough for her to glimpse the hold he had on Ruthie, who was tilted at a precarious angle, his fingers knotted into the front of her sweater and his other hand at her waist the only things preventing her from a backwards tumble to the floor several stairs below. "You really want me to let her go?" he sneered.

Joan stilled her fist, eyes widening. He was going to do it. He was going to do it, and Ruthie knew it too: with the hand she had use of, she gripped his thick wrist, begging, "Please, Donnie," and choking on a sob. She blinked, expelling two large tears, one for each cheek, but didn't open her eyelids after that. She set her lips in a thin line and held her breath. She was preparing to fall.

And she would have, if not for Helen's mad dash past the staircase, around the railing which overlooked Kevin's wheelchair ramp, down the ramp itself, and straight to the telephone that mingled with the magazines and coasters on the living room coffee table. Donovan stormed after her, clearing the stairs in a few quick strides, Ruthie in tow, bent and dangling from his arm like a worm on a fishhook. Ruthie kicked at nothing but air, and when he reached solid ground, Donovan hefted her further up and tighter against him, both of them grunting. She wriggled and writhed; he struggled and gave her a vicious jounce, and another, trying to tame her.

It was a horrible sight and a fascinating one, their bodies competing, heedless of each other, no words spoken, just small hiccupping noises from Ruthie and labored puffs of air from Donovan. He was midway down the ramp when he lost his balance, stumbled, pitched forward. It was either land flat on his face or drop the extra weight. He chose the latter, casting Ruthie aside with an unceremonious toss. She hit the carpet all at once, spread-eagle, the floorboards beneath humming and Helen's knickknacks rattling in their shelves. Joan gasped in unison with Helen, who had the phone to her ear, relating the emergency at Detective Will Girardi's home. Donovan simply kept in motion, his knee folding, grazing the floor, but not felling him.

He wrested the phone from Helen with little effort, though she dodged him and managed to recite the street and digits of her address; he chucked it at the vacant fireplace, plastic clattering against brick, three for three.

Kneeling next to Ruthie's prone figure, Joan looked on helplessly, torn between fear for her mother and her friend. But Donovan wasn't interested in Helen. He jabbed his index finger into her collarbone, a "you better not try that again" type warning, and neared her menacingly until she was seated on the sofa cushion, no place else to go. Then his focus went back to Ruthie, and he ambled in her direction, casual, as if he hadn't just thrown her the way some people peel off a jacket or pair of shoes, discarding them in the corner.

God help me, Joan thought. God help me. And to Ruthie, she said, "Can you sit up? You gotta get up." In the same breath, she told Donovan, "Stop. Please don't do this."

No one would listen. Other than shifting onto her side, her body quaking gently, Ruthie went nowhere. Donovan wasn't deterred by pleas or Joan's foot smashing into his ankle. And God. He seemed to have forsaken them all.

Crouching, Donovan touched Ruthie's head, looking almost merciful, looking like he might say, "Are you okay, baby? Are you hurt?" But his fingers nestled into her silky hair, damp yet from the wet comb, only to capture a fistful and yank it. Ruthie opened her mouth in a silent scream, rising half off the floor, her hand flailing and flailing until she had something in her grasp - Donovan's ear - and reciprocated the gesture, pulling, tugging, hanging on so fast that she stood along with him as he bolted upright.

"Fuck!" He unleashed her and repeated the curse, shaking loose the golden strands that were tangled round his knuckles. When he couldn't pry her fingers away, he shoved, the force coming from behind, toppling her again.

Joan saw blood and knew for certain that the noise she had heard was Ruthie's chin striking the coffee table's wooden edge.

A grisly streak formed on the carpet when Donovan used his wife's foot to haul her closer to him. He flipped her over, onto her back, straddling her abdomen. His hands were at her throat. She gurgled and sputtered through bloodstained lips.

Diving at him, Joan plastered herself to Donovan's arched back, wrapping his head in a tenacious hug. As kids, she and Kevin had played I Give, ages eight and eleven, squeezing each other till lungs burned, arms throbbed, and someone either surrendered or declared a tie, on account of parental scolding. She used that technique now, half expecting Donovan's skull to pop, she squeezed so hard. Instead she was lifted heavenward as he got to his feet, roaring and trying to buck her off. She encircled his waist with her legs and clung for all she was worth.

How long they careened about the room, Joan didn't know. She was vaguely aware that Helen had disappeared, and it frightened her, her mother being gone. She shut her eyes and nuzzled into the curve of Donovan's neck, willing him to pass out or... anything, just anything, because she had begun to lose her grip. But he won in the end, and this time when she heard a body hit the floor, it was her own.

Joan sat up instantly, too dazed by the sudden drop to register the sting in her elbows and buttocks. Donovan loomed above, but it was Ruthie she sought out, their gazes locking. Even slumped against the coffee table leg, absolutely wasted, gulping air and catching fluid from her split chin, palm cupped to it, Ruthie looked apologetic. _Forgive me_, said her eyes, _this wasn't supposed to happen to you._ Then Ruthie's attention turned to Donovan, his relentless pursuit not over, unfinished business left to tend to.

"You'll have to answer for what you're doing, Don," she warned, scooting away as he reached.

"To who? God?" he said, with disdain. "Got news for you, Ruth Anne. He doesn't give a shit what I do to you."

In a final desperate attempt to stop Donovan, Joan crawled on hands and knees and launched at his leg. She had him. She sunk her teeth in just above his ankle, meeting resistance and bone. It hurt to bite like that, but when he howled in pain, she chomped down harder. Several wild kicks freed him, one of them making contact, the serrated tread of his shoe glancing her cheek. She touched wetness and came back with bloody fingertips. But it was the blow that followed, the brain-jarring wallop to the side of her head, which stunned her most and caused her to throw both hands up, protecting her face.

Ruthie was screaming at him. Stop, stop! God damn you! Something fell or was thrown. Joan felt woozy, felt another hand, this one gentle, shielding her. She peered through the cracks in her fingers, watching Donovan raise his fist again. Whether he meant it for her or Ruthie was hard to tell. He had enough hatred in his eyes for both of them.

And then, _bang!_ Joan's eardrums exploded with sound: that first deafening pop, the immediate ring-buzz-hiss right after, Ruthie's startled squeal, high and piercing. _Bang!_ More of the same, only now there was a thump, and the defensive embrace Joan had been gathered into gave a jolt, like Ruthie had woken from a half-sleep dream of falling falling falling, just in the nick of time, just before earth nabbed her.

It took the scorched, musty smell of gunpowder for Joan to realize she had heard bullets being fired. The thump must have been Donovan; he was lain out before her and Ruthie, his long, lean form spread wide, theirs bunched together, pressing in on each other to avoid him.

"Oh, my God," Ruthie murmured. "Oh, God."

Joan's head wobbled unsteadily on her neck, but she turned to the staircase, to see what Ruthie was looking at, and saw her mother. Arms extended, a pistol quivering in her hands, Helen was almost unrecognizable. Her pallid face twisted into odd expressions as she lowered the weapon, bending at the knees, placing it on the step. She withdrew as if it had snapped at her, a malicious creature about to have her fingers for lunch.

Later, Joan got the full story -- knowing that the police response time in Arcadia was ten minutes, a lifetime, or maybe the end of one, when a daughter and friend were being attacked, Helen had mounted the stairs, gone to her bedroom, fumbled with the lockbox she demanded Will keep his gun in, even if the kids were old enough and smart enough not to play with it and shoot themselves dead. She had been headed for the door when a tiny voice asked, "Where's my mama?" and a peek over the mattress revealed June and Charlie huddling between bed and dresser, terrified, their ears alert to the commotion downstairs. But they were lost in a dark, unfamiliar room and hadn't found their way out, thank God. "Stay in here, babies. Shh, don't cry," Helen, gun hidden behind her back, had told them, adding, "Your mama's all right," before she left, locking the door and pocketing the key. But that was a lie. Ruthie hadn't been all right, and neither had Joan. And Donovan... the first bullet had missed, the second he took square in the chest.

"Oh, God," Ruthie repeated now, edging closer to her husband.

Joan feared it was a ruse, that his vacant eyes would go cold and mean any minute, and his rampage would continue. Ruthie must have thought so too, her touch tentative on his shoulder. When he didn't yell or punch, she moved even closer and knelt by his side. For a long while she remained there, her hand motionless against him, her blood mixing with his.


	13. It Will Be Me

When all the others  
Have gone and hurt you  
Who won't desert you?  
Oh, it will be me  
Weighing the options  
So much to think of  
But when you think love  
It will be me

You may not see it now  
Love is strange that way  
But someday, someway, baby somehow

When you've been broken  
And dreams don't oblige ya  
Who's that beside ya?  
Oh, it will be me

--Kristin Chenoweth, "It Will Be Me"

* * *

**IT WILL BE ME**

The hospital was beginning to feel like home. In three days, Joan had already developed a reputation with the staff. _That bossy girl who thinks she knows more than we do._ But she received good-natured smiles in the hall, and no one could fault her for wanting the best treatment possible for her friend, who had a steady stream of visitors each afternoon and well into the evening, though none as faithful as Joan.

Ruthie's condition wasn't serious. At least that's what the kind strawberry-blonde woman named Dr. Wilbur said. Under normal circumstances a hospital stay wouldn't have been necessary at all. But given the pregnancy and the physical and emotional stress of the mother, not to mention two trips to the ER within the span of an hour, rest and observation were prescribed. And rest Ruthie did. If not for the comings and goings of nearly half the Arcadia High student body and many of the teachers too, she might have done nothing but sleep.

Nobody reprimanded Joan for skipping school to be with Ruthie. In fact, Helen gave her blessing, and Grace used it as an excuse to cut class also, hanging out in the cafeteria and allowing Joan to drag her to the second floor just once, where she had her first real introduction to her neighbor. Awkward though it was, Ruthie put everyone at ease and thanked Grace without saying what for, asking that word be passed on to Rabbi Polonski.

Later, when they were alone, Grace told Joan that Ruthie "turned out cooler than I expected."

A bit less reserved, the sentiments expressed in dozens of cards and notes accompanied by floral arrangements decorated Ruthie's room and proved how much of an impact she had made in a relatively short amount of time. "To our favorite teacher" said one noticeable card with purple and green hearts on the front, and skeins of glitter. Inside, carefully printed in ink that matched the cover, were the lines of an ABBA song:

Thank you for the music  
The songs I'm singing  
Thanks for all the joy  
They're bringing  
Who can live without it?  
I ask in all honesty  
What would life be  
Without a song or a dance what are we  
So I say thank you for the music  
For giving it to me

"Love, Dorothy & Jennifer," it was signed. Ruthie made quite a fuss over the girls when they dropped it off, each bearing a white rose and heart-shaped balloon. She kept the gifts next to her bedside, along with the fluffy teddy bear Friedman had delivered under the watchful eye of Joan, his conversation stilted and his body language apologetic. Ruthie was gracious with him and all the others, but, afterwards, her sighs were wistful, silences deep. "I didn't know," Joan remembered telling her. Before. "I didn't want you to," Ruthie had replied.

That seemed like years ago rather than a few weeks. Joan felt a decade older and stripped of some innocence she couldn't get back, maybe didn't want back. She had given up wishing time could be reversed so her and Ruthie's friendship wouldn't be bogged down in secrecy. The secret was over, and they had surpassed the mere title of "friend." Their bond went to the core, forged in flesh and blood -- they would have the scars to prove it. It took five stitches to mend Ruthie's chin, five more to lace the gash at Joan's left cheekbone. As if they were completing a set, evening out each other's pain.

"After a while you'll forget it's there," Dr. Wilbur had said to Ruthie, busy suturing, referring to the inevitable flaw her handiwork would leave behind.

Joan doubted the truth of that.

On the last day at the hospital, she sat in the ugly brown upholstered chair she had grown attached to, a sorry piece of furniture but a comfy one, and she watched Ruthie sleep, her eyes wandering over the zigzag of thread. When that was snipped away, the imprint would run from below Ruthie's chin and curve upward just enough to be visible without her tilting her head back. The bruises were already healing, if taking on the appearance of damaged fruit could be called healing. But the scar. It was hers to keep... for always.

Delicately, Joan reached to brush aside a lock of Ruthie's hair. Didn't need to be done, but she did it anyway.

"Hmm?" Ruthie stirred from her catlike position, body curled in on itself, an arm draped carelessly - no, protectively - across her belly. She pointed her toes below the bed covers, stretching. Her eyes were the last thing to move, lazy as they opened to see who had disturbed her. "Joanie," she said, and smiled.

An odd desire to laugh and cry passed through Joan. She wasn't a spontaneous hugger, but she had the sudden urge to be. Ruthie wouldn't object, no question there. Still, Joan settled for returning the smile. "You know, nobody ever called me that, even when I was little," she said.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Nope." Definitely not. "But you're the only one allowed to use it. You and the kids."

"Well, of course. You're _our_ Joanie."

"Unchallenged."

When Ruthie's drowsy blinking had stopped and she was situated more comfortably against the inclined mattress, Joan handed her a small gift bag with pink and orange bubble designs and tissue paper blooming from the top.

"Brought you this. It's kind of a... 'going home this afternoon' present... thing."

"Aww. Thanks, darlin'," Ruthie said, before she had seen the bag's contents. Eager as a child on Christmas morning, she rummaged inside with her good hand and jiggled until it reappeared holding a figurine -- a tiny angel that fit the length of her palm and fingers.

"They sell those in a shop across from where I work. Every time I go by the window display, I think of you."

Ruthie traced her thumb over the resin figure's intricate details -- the girlish body clothed in a pink tunic and flowing white skirt, the realistic face and short-cropped hair adorned by a flower chain instead of a halo, the wings that resembled a cream-colored butterfly.

"There's a whole bunch of them. A couple different series, like one for each month and stuff. She's not any certain month, though. I just liked her." Joan left out that she had intended to buy November, then changed her mind because, of the collection, it was one of the few angels on its knees rather than standing. For reasons she didn't dwell on, she couldn't bring herself to purchase it.

Ruthie hadn't looked up yet.

Joan fretted her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "I should've got you something else..."

"No. She's beautiful." Ruthie drew the angel to her chest, held it there. "I love her."

The words were heartfelt, the expression sincere. Joan watched for tears, but none came. It occurred to her she had begun to anticipate the crying as often as she used to wait for the laughter. But the past three days had seen very little emotion from Ruthie. She didn't weep when the woman doctor looked grim and took an eternity longer than God to discover a heartbeat on the fetal monitor. Neither did she react to Charlie's announcement, "Daddy _gived_ Mama owwie," after he and June got their first glimpse of her, of the outcome to their nightmare. ("Where's Daddy?" he had added, gazing around the room, from Ruthie in her hospital bed to Joan in the ugly chair.) And she hadn't responded to the news of Donovan, either. Donovan who died on a gurney while she lay on one too. Donovan whose heart quit pumping while his unborn baby's kept going strong. Donovan who could never harm his wife again.

"I can't. Not yet," Ruthie had said, when Joan assured her it was okay to speak of him, to voice any thought or feeling. Hand over her chest, same as now, she gave the explanation: "I'm afraid of what I'll find."

Joan didn't push.

"Whatcha thinkin'?" Ruthie tipped her head and peered at Joan.

"Oh, nothin'."

Ruthie carefully set the angel on the table next to her then patted the empty space on the bed, near her hip. "Come sit by me."

Ready and willing, Joan obliged. It made up for the missed hug, getting to snuggle in beside Ruthie, having her cuddle even closer. She had lost weight. A whopping two pounds, she joked, as if promoting a miracle diet. But Dr. Wilbur warned that ninety-two was an unhealthy weight for her, naturally tiny or not, and for the baby. Joan could tell why as she slipped an arm around Ruthie and felt how frail she was.

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"Mm-hmm," Ruthie replied, playing with Joan's fingers. She noticed the stern look directed her way, and teased, "Yes, Mother."

"How's the Little Bee treating you?"

"Pretty good." Ruthie patted her stomach. "Doesn't much care for eggs though. Just like-"

Joan held her breath, but Ruthie moved on.

"How's your dad?"

"He's fine. Back to work. He said to tell you hello."

"And your mom? How's she?"

"She's... painting a lot."

"She didn't visit yesterday." The statement was soft, hard to hear. "I hoped she'd come today."

Joan watched as her thumb ring was twisted round and round by Ruthie.

After a moment, Ruthie glanced up, her head light against the cushiony spot on Joan's shoulder, her eyes a shade greener than usual. Like slick wet grass, following a heavy rain. "Is she mad at me?" she asked timidly.

"There's no reason for her to be mad at you, Ruthie. I think she's worried you're mad at her."

"But I'm not. If she hadn't..." Trailing off, Ruthie touched the backs of her fingers to Joan's temple, where skin and hair converged, almost concealing the patch of violet, the faint swelling. Her face was remorseful as she stroked Joan's, cautious of the stitches. "You tell her I want to see her."

They talked on, discussing the plans for that afternoon, Ruthie's eagerness to be reunited with June and Charlie, whose days were split between the nanny in the morning and the Girardis at night, and her excitement for her mother's arrival on a flight from Tulsa. Deedee Sullivan, by all accounts, sounded like a force of nature, and Joan couldn't wait to meet her. But something about the way Ruthie spoke of Deedee now, the name rolling off her tongue as if it were the solution to a well-pondered equation, bothered Joan. Without knowing why, she dreaded what would come as the chatter faded.

First, Ruthie cleared her throat, then she did it again. "Joan," she began, and went ahead shakily when there was no answer, "I've been doing a lot of thinking... about what the kids and I should do now that it's just us. I've never actually been on my own before. I lived with my mom until I got married and then Don and I- well, he made his plans and I followed them. It was his idea to move to Maryland. He has family here."

"Had," Joan said, voice catching on the small word.

Ruthie nodded. "But my family. Mama and I haven't seen each other in almost a year. He made it difficult for her and me to spend time together. She barely knows her grandkids. And with everything else that's happened, and with the baby coming..."

Joan wouldn't gaze down though Ruthie waited.

"I've decided we'll probably move back to Tulsa, get a place near my mom. Things would be easier there."

The bump on Joan's head throbbed as if she had gotten socked a second time. She had feared this. Oh, she was used to people coming in and out of her life, creating a relationship only to have it drift away when her job was done, like tossing bottles into the sea, notes inside that might someday get a reply but most likely wouldn't. Why, though, did she have to lose the important ones - the Rockys, the Judiths, the Adams, the Ruthies - people whose lives touched hers as much as, or more than, she theirs? If being an instrument of God meant having to say goodbye to those she loved best, then it wasn't worth it. God could find a new instrument.

"No," Joan said, aware she was pouting, but not caring.

"I don't mean right away. I want June and Charlie to at least have a normal Christmas. I'd wait till after-"

"No."

"Joanie, honey-"

"What about the choir? We've got that competition in January. You have to be there. Everyone's looking forward to it, and you know how hard we've worked."

"I could stay for that."

"Yeah, but then it will be, like, the dead of winter. You can't move then. And when winter's over with, you'll be, what, four months along? You really wanna go from Maryland to Oklahoma and haul all your stuff, too, while you're that pregnant? So, you wait till after Bee comes, but by then it'll be almost time for June to start school. She already knows people here, it'll be scarier for her if she has to go someplace new _and_ go to school for the first time."

Ruthie chewed at her thumbnail.

"It doesn't have to be complicated here. You've got a job, your house, a bunch of students who'd be really sad to see you go. If you need help with the kids, I'll always be around. You wouldn't have to pay me to watch them or anything. And my mom would help out. So, see, you won't be alone. I know I'm not family, but..." Joan's chin quivered, working as a trigger, her eyes suddenly awash with tears. "I do love you, and that counts for something, right? Look at what we've been through together." She tried wiping away the tears as they ran into her stitches. "If that's not enough, you could- you could ask your mom to move here... Please don't go, Ruthie."

"Oh." Ruthie didn't sound able to manage much else. She guided Joan's head to her shoulder, their positions reversed, and planted several kisses onto the mane of dark hair until the sobs quieted. "Good gracious," she said, and laugh-sighed. "Break my heart, why don't you?"

"Sorry." Joan's feeble attempt at a laugh died before it hit the air. She snuffled, collecting herself, and drew back, hoping for a change, a _yes, I'll stay_. _You win, Joan_. _I will never leave you_.

Dry-eyed, Ruthie said none of those things. What she did say was a soft and sweet, "I love you too," that would have incited more crying from Joan, had there not come a tapping on the hospital room door as it was eased open.

"Knock, knock." The owner of the lilting voice, a brunette woman Joan didn't recognize, peeked around the door, caught sight of Ruthie, and wasted no time crossing to the bedside and enveloping her in a hug that - after she exclaimed, "Mama!" - made Ruthie wheeze, "Sweetie, I can't breathe."

"Oh, baby girl, baby girl." Deedee Sullivan didn't let go. She patted and caressed Ruthie's back, rocking her from side to side in a pair of slender yet capable arms.

"You're here early," Ruthie said, when they separated, but she was hard to understand, panting as if she had just completed a vigorous exercise and talking through lips that were puckered together between Deedee's fingers, primed for kissing.

_Smooch._ "I found myself a better flight. I couldn't just sit around on my hands while my little girl needed me." _Smooch, smooch._ Deedee's eyes blazed as she tilted her daughter's face upwards, studying the injuries, tucking blonde hair behind dainty ears, pecking Ruthie on the forehead. "That monster," she growled through clenched teeth, as intense in her fury as she was in her affection. "So help me God, I would kill him if he wasn't already dead."

"Mama."

"I can't believe I didn't know. All these years..."

"It doesn't matter now."

"You were only nineteen, a baby. I shouldn't have let you marry him. Strutting around like an ol' peacock, that nasty smirk, always eyeing you up. I wanted to break his fingers every time he touched you. And I was still too damn blind and stupid to figure it out. I'm sorry, darlin'. I'm so sorry."

"Don't say that," Ruthie scolded gently. But she allowed herself to be embraced again, sinking so deep into the folds of Deedee's festive turtleneck and sweater set that she had to repeat, "Mama, we're being rude to Joan," because the first was too muffled.

"No, it's okay." Joan had inched off the bed and stood next to it. "I think I'll go find a snack or something and let you guys catch up."

Deedee had other plans. "This is Joan?" she asked, grinning as she helped Ruthie towards her pillow and bustled to the opposite side of the bed, clacking up a storm in tan loafers. "Girl, you are just the person I've had a hankerin' to meet. Ruthie told me all about you on the phone. I'm her mama, Deedee. And you are every bit the doll she said you'd be. Look at that face."

Not only did Deedee look at it, she took hold and kissed it too, smack on the mouth, as she had done with Ruthie.

"Um, h-hi," Joan said, giggling uncertainly, making Ruthie snicker in a mischievous "I warned you" way.

Deedee had russet brown hair with a coppery sheen and penny-brown eyes to match. She was bigger than her daughter, but not much. And apart from her higher, sharply defined cheekbones, she had the same ageless features, whether she was young or old anybody's guess, and the same button nose and chin. But it was the smile which confirmed her as Ruthie's mother -- wide and ready, full of straight teeth, the two in front a hint more pronounced, adding youthful charm to the dazzle of white. She flashed it, that killer smile, and said, "All right, Miss Joan, back me up on something. This child of mine is entirely too thin, isn't she? She's a twig! You and I are gonna have to get her good 'n' fat."

Whatever resentment had been building for the woman who might take Ruthie away, Joan placed it aside right then. "Dude, I know," she agreed, glad to have someone in cahoots with her. "I keep bringing her candy bars, but she claims Bee doesn't like them. Seems to me there's not much Bee _does_ like."

Ruthie clucked her tongue but had no defense.

"Who's Bea?" Deedee asked.

"Bee, Mama. As in buzz, buzz," Ruthie said, dreamy, her eyelashes fluttering closed for a moment as she enjoyed the feel of Deedee's palm gliding over her hair, loving and harmless.

"Oh." Deedee nodded as if she understood, then wrinkled her nose, perplexed, and glanced to Joan. "Huh?"

"That's what we nicknamed the baby. 'Cause the doctor compared her to a honeybee on the sonogram. And it's better than calling her-"

"Or him," Ruthie put in.

"- calling her 'it.' And I'm telling you, it's going to be a girl. You'll see."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Deedee held a silencing finger in the air, pretending to listen for an answer, her hand on the meager stretch of blanket with Ruthie's belly underneath. "Yep," she said, a second later, "Joan's got it. You're having a girl. And she'll be the spittin' image of her Mamaw Dee, personality included."

"Oh, Lord," Ruthie drawled, and received a light swat on the thigh. Her adoration for Deedee was obvious as they exchanged grins, and again Joan felt like an intruder.

"Speaking of my grandbabies. How are June Amelia and Charles Henry? Still ornery as stink?"

"Charlie's a wild man. Just your style. You won't believe it, Mama, he's gotten so big. The rate he's going, he'll be taller than me by kindergarten." Ruthie sat forward, the topic of her children enlivening her, brightening the twinkle Deedee's arrival had ignited in her eyes. "And June... she's perfect. All she's missing are some wings."

"The apple didn't fall far from the tree."

"Exactly."

"My angel of music here ever tell you the story 'bout the time she tried to fly?" Deedee asked Joan, while gesturing to Ruthie.

"Nope." Joan cast a sly gaze at Ruthie, who had groaned and made a show of not wanting to hear another word. She egged Deedee on with an inverted wave. Let's have it.

"Well, it was a few days after a dance recital she had participated in. You ever seen her dance? I oughta make her get out of bed and wiggle that fanny right this minute, much as I paid for them lessons. Tap, jazz, ballet, gymnastics -- it's a wonder I didn't end up in the poor house."

"Boohoo, Momma Rose," Ruthie added.

"Hush." Deedee kissed her fingertip and pressed it to her daughter's lips, leaving it there until Ruthie giggled and shooed her away. "Anyhow. For one of the routines, she had an itty bitty angel costume to wear -- white leotard that rode up and kept her diggin' through the whole song-"

"Mama!"

"-long mesh tutu full of snags five seconds after she put it on, her _brown_ curls going flat under that droopy tinsel halo. She was the most adorable child on stage, stole the show. I have photos _and_ video, if you're interested."

"Oh, indubitably," Joan said.

"Traitor," Ruthie accused. "Remind me later to tell you what I know of you and a certain gentleman named Mr. Claus."

Joan gasped a perfect horror-stricken gasp, the type directors such as Wes Craven strive to create, but Deedee hadn't finished.

"Afterwards she wouldn't change out of that costume, come hell or high water. She wore it three days straight, and finally I told her, 'Ruthie Anne, either put something else on or run around _nekked_, 'cause that's going in the wash.' So she says to me, all sweet and innocent-" Deedee batted her eyelashes, raising her voice to a childish timbre not unlike her own, "'Okay, Mama, but let me try this one thing. Then you can have it.'"

Ruthie's attempt to hide her amusement produced a quiet snort.

"Being the trusting soul I am, I let her have her way. And what happens? 'Bout ten minutes later, I'm standing in the kitchen and I hear the pitter-patter of tiny Ruthie feet up on the roof. Except, I don't know that's what it is, not yet. No, I happen to be by the window, and I look out expecting to see the sky falling. Instead, I see my baby girl hurtling through thin air and landing in the bushes thirty feet below."

Ruthie snorted again, louder, her free shoulder bouncing with suppressed giggles. "You add five feet each time you tell this."

"Was she hurt?" Joan asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Broke her leg and missed too many classes to be in the next recital. Which was probably a blessing since her costume for that would've been a mermaid -- don't ask me how it worked. I hate to think what she might have done in that one."

"Now Mama, I told you why I did it."

"That's right," Deedee informed Joan. "She was all laid up in a hospital bed, leg in a cast, and I asked, 'Darlin', what on earth possessed you to jump off the roof?' She looked at me with those big gorgeous eyes. 'It _wadn't_ Earth, Mama, it was Heaven. You always say I came from there. I just wanted to fly home for a bit so they won't miss me.'"

"Awwwww." Joan had the scene pictured in her mind, but it required little imagination. She need only distort the years some; the rest was staged before her. More or less. "How old was she?"

"Here's the kicker," Deedee said solemnly, dropping to a whisper that both members of her audience leaned in to hear, "She was seventeen." Index finger near her ear, she began tracing slow, revolving circles, the signal for stark raving madness.

Ruthie flumped against her pillow, head tossed back, peals of tinkly fairy-dust laughter wafting to the ceiling, flitting in and out of Deedee's brassy laugh and Joan's dubious one, a symphony of merry sounds. With the breaths she was able to capture, she declared, "I... was... seven, you fibber!"

"Oh, well, my memory must be poopin' out on me." Deedee winked at Joan, chuckling. Then she turned a tender gaze on Ruthie, heart in her eyes and, judging by the sudden thickness to her voice, in her throat as well. "Seven and goin' to Heaven," she murmured.

"Almost made it there, too, didn't I?" Ruthie said into the palm she had used to cover her face. She hunched forward then, bent at the waist, knees slightly upraised beneath the blanket and close enough she could have rested her forehead on them. A tremor skittered down her back, followed by another, and soon her whole body responded with the aftershock. She reached for Deedee, who was also shaking as she got on the bed. Mother and daughter wrapped themselves into each other like kittens in a litter, personal space a foreign concept, an undesirable one.

For a moment, Joan thought they were still laughing. But there was a sharp intake of air, a high, thin wail, who it came from impossible to tell while their heads were lowered, their hair forming dark and light veils. Just like that, Ruthie's mourning had begun. Joan wondered though... what grief was this? For Donovan? Or for Ruthie herself, the life she had been robbed of for the past eleven years?

The answer would have to wait. Joan's feet were sluggish as they carried her quietly to the door, and she hesitated once, turning to see the spot Deedee filled by Ruthie's side. The very same spot Joan had been in earlier. And, as she stepped into the hall, she vowed to be there again, whenever she was needed.

* * *

An old woman was placing a basket of assorted cookies at the edge of the information desk when Joan passed by. Drawing closer, with plans of intercepting a treat from the chocolate chip pile, Joan got a better look at the woman's bob of wheat-colored hair, spectacles under stick-straight bangs, and that unmistakable face.

They stared at each other for a while, Joan and Old Lady God.

"Have one." God tipped the basket towards Joan.

"No, thanks."

"Would you like me to wrap one up for you? For later?"

"If you're trying to bribe me so I won't be mad, you're doing a crappy job of it."

Old Lady God remained placid, hands folded. "I don't bribe. I just know how much you enjoy chocolate chip."

"Yeah, well..." Joan huffed, letting her hands slap against her thighs. Why was she standing here arguing about cookies? "You also know I don't enjoy maniacs breaking into my house and trying to kill my friends. Guess you were too busy baking while that happened, huh?"

"No, I was there. I sat with you and Ruthie on the floor. I was with Helen when she ran for the gun and with June and Charlie while they hid in the darkness. Nothing separates you from me, Joan. Neither death, nor life, nor angels. Not even Donovan Snow. I would never abandon you."

"Tell that to Ruthie."

"She already knows. What do you think has sustained her so long?"

Joan opened her mouth, but no witty response came. She couldn't do that, make light of Ruthie's faith, no matter how much her own was shaken. And though she had saved it and cultivated it for the last three days, she found her anger lacking the passion she originally expected. Frustrated, she leaned on the ledge between her and God, elbows on it, head resting in her palm.

"I'm not going to ask why about a bunch of stuff," she said, after a moment, tapping her pinky to the corner of her mouth. She absent-mindedly inspected the sprigs of lilac on Old Lady God's patterned blouse, connecting them with invisible lines. "I thought I would, but I suppose I have most of it figured out by now."

"You've learned from previous experience."

"Yeah." _Lucky me_, she almost added then didn't. "Answer me this, though. Did I totally screw this up? Is that why things went so badly?"

"Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better." Old Lady God tipped his head, looking down his nose and out through his spectacles. "You did the best you could, Joan. Stop blaming yourself for the wrongs Donovan committed."

Joan fiddled with a scrap of paper on the desk, bending back its corners. "So... my mom's not in trouble then. For shooting him." She was careful to leave off the question marks, since she had made a big deal of understanding.

"Helen was protecting the people she loves. She didn't intend to kill Donovan, it was just his time to go. She wouldn't be punished for that."

"Is... he being punished?" Joan glanced up briefly.

"That's between Donovan and me."

Yeah, she had expected as much.

"Here," Old Lady God said, digging into the basket and presenting Joan with three of the largest chocolate chip cookies it held. "Take one to Ruthie and Deedee too. They're wondering where you are right about now."

Joan took the sweets, having to use both hands. She tried to smile but frowned instead, on the verge of tears. "So, this is how it ends. I keep losing people until everybody's gone and it's just me, all alone."

God's face softened as he reached to pat Joan's cheek. "You'll never walk alone, remember? And as for the end... that, dear heart, has yet to be written."


	14. Epilogue: Happiness

**Author's Note: **Hmm... okay, so apparently chapter 13 was not the most popular of chapters? That kind of blows. But it wasn't the last chapter, if that's what y'all were thinking. I like to wrap things up more than that. And I always put "The End" at the end so people know I'm done. Hee. That said, this _is _the final chapter. (And I have more to say, but I'll write a final author's note and tag it on as chapter 15, 'cause it'll be long and I don't want to have it cluttering up the end of my story.)

* * *

Happiness is singing together when day is through  
And happiness is those who sing with you  
Happiness is morning and evening  
Daytime and nighttime too  
For happiness is anyone and anything at all  
That's loved by you

-- _You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, _"Happiness"

* * *

**Epilogue: HAPPINESS**

Beatrice Joan Snow was born July 24th and spent the first two weeks of her life in the NICU, going home on her predicted due date. A number of factors might have contributed to her low birth weight, said the doctor, but, yes, in all likelihood it was connected to the trauma during early pregnancy. "Donnie's parting shot," Ruthie summed-up, putting into words what everyone else was thinking. So seldom did she mention his name anymore, it had sounded peculiar, as if it were being mispronounced.

But the good news. Beatrice was as resilient outside the womb as she had been in it. While Ruthie quickly shed the twenty-five pounds she had little by little gained, her maximum weight of 117 making her feel like a "herd of buffalo," a comparison she never repeated after the looks Joan and Helen gave her, Beatrice's growth flourished. On one of many first month visits, the pediatrician marveled at the infant's progress. Joan, who hadn't missed a single check-up or any other event through the entire pregnancy and beyond, later commented, her voice a singsong, "BJ must have her mama's will and God's amazing grace," quoting her favorite Reba McEntire song. "Brava," Ruthie replied, this time not rubbing it in that she had triumphed over Joan's aversion to country music. But her grin was smug.

On top of appointing BJ her own theme song, Joan was also responsible for the baby's name. After nearly eight months of referring to Bee, Little Bee, Honeybee, and so forth, when Ruthie announced from the hospital bed, just hours following a long and arduous labor, that her newborn daughter was to be christened by Joan, it took only seconds for a first, middle and nickname to be conjured up:

"Beatrice," said Joan.

"Beatrice," Ruthie enunciated slowly, getting a feel for it on her tongue, tasting its sweetness. "Beatrice Joan... I like it!"

And then together, both anticipating what would come from each other's mouths, they proclaimed, "BJ!"

"Y'all call her what you want," Deedee said, yawning, the loss of a night's rest hitting her especially hard since her days were full of unpacking boxes, decorating empty rooms, snazzing up, as she dubbed it with her usual flare, her new Arcadia residence, "but she's gonna be Trixie to Mamaw Dee."

"Trixie the Pixie," Helen cooed whenever she held the baby, fondling every scrawny red finger and every Thumbelina-sized toe that extended, wavering, flapping at the air as if they actually were infused with traces of pixie or honeybee, flight an option.

Helen's description suited BJ in other ways too. With her tuft of white-blonde hair and emerald green eyes, fully alert to the slightest activity that went on around her, whether it was June peering over the bassinet in wonderment or Charlie doing his celebratory "I'm a Big Brother" dance, there was something faintly ethereal to her appearance. As she grew she lost her resemblance to a wizened sprite and turned into a plump and rosy one, her rolls of fat known to inspire fits of laughter from Ruthie and Joan during bath time or diaper changings. Also inspired was Will, his role as adopted uncle-grandpa played to the hilt. "Who'zza baby girl? Who'zza baby girl?" he liked to jabber, blowing raspberries on BJ's tummy till she shrieked with delight and tried to uproot fistfuls of his hair.

Beatrice Joan Snow was a cheerful baby. A lucky baby. She had her mama's will and God's amazing grace. She had Mamaw Dee's boisterous personality, as predicted. She had Aunt Helen and Aunt Joanie who would gladly walk to the ends of the earth if she sat up in her crib one day and requested it. She had Will and the other "uncles," Luke and Kevin, to provide endless laughs and games of peek-a-boo. She had Charlie for all the rowdy fun and June for the pampering that was needed after too much of him. Beatrice, BJ, Trixie, Bee... she had more love and more joy than she had nicknames.

But none of that compared to the happiness she brought Ruthie.

* * *

That November, when BJ was almost four months old, big sister June made her stage debut with the rest of Arcadia Elementary's first grade class. The play was about Thanksgiving dinner, and each child represented a food item, utensil, or table decoration. June had been cast as the tablecloth, which worked nicely because her best friend, Dakota, was a plate, and most of the girls' interaction would be with each other.

Moments before joining the rest of her antsy classmates behind the vast red curtain that would open to an auditorium filled with grinning moms and dads, whiny younger siblings (except Charlie, who sat on Helen's lap and tapped perfect strangers on the shoulder, inquiring, "Did you come to see Junie?"), and one very keyed up Deedee, June was the picture of calm. Ruthie and Joan, however, were not.

"This isn't too itchy, is it?" Ruthie asked, plucking lightly at the shawl of lace and sheer white fabric she had crafted for her daughter to wear. She went on without an answer, fussing at the hem of the costume, lifting it away from June's feet. "I still think it's too long. I knew I should've taken it up."

"I hope she doesn't trip," Joan fretted, watching Ruthie and June through the LCD screen of the camcorder, forgetting to lower it so her voice wouldn't be detected by the microphone.

"Joan Agnes Girardi!" Ruthie bunched the names together into one as she straightened to her full height, hands on her hips. "Now is a fine time to bring that up."

"Me? You're the one who didn't fix it."

"I'll fix you in about two shakes, missy."

"You'll have to catch me first. And with those things..." Joan aimed the camera lens at Ruthie's lower extremities, filming the abbreviated legs of her cargo pants, the size five and a half pink and silver Skechers on her feet. "Sorry, Short Round, it ain't gonna happen."

June raised both hands, like a tiny maestro about to conduct an orchestra, palms facing outwards, a slight gap between her pinkies and the rest of her fingers. Her expression was of the utmost seriousness. "Mama," she said, "Aunt Joanie. Please keep your voices down, I have to go to school with these people." She slanted her eyes in the direction of the boys and girls that were filing through a doorway at the end of the hall, their teacher ushering them forward with instructions on where to go and how quiet they must be. "I like my costume long because tablecloths are long. And I won't trip because I've practiced walking in it. But I have to get on stage now, so you better find your seats."

After blowing her mother and Joan kisses, June twirled around, her long ponytail swishing as she hurried to catch Dakota. The girls paused to smile and wave at the camcorder, giggling, then continued on behind their peers.

"Well," Ruthie said.

"Our little girl is growing up," Joan replied.

* * *

Fifteen minutes into the production, two children, the chunky red-haired boy dressed as a squash and the angular girl whose bony elbows and sharp nose made her more recognizable as a knife than her costume, developed stage fright and collided with each other trying to flee - "Sakes alive, it's practically a massacre," Deedee said, receiving appreciative chuckles from the row in front of her - and three others forgot their lines, which turned into a lot of "umms" and "uhhs" until teacher's frantic signals brought forth the next dumbstruck speaker.

When the turkey took center stage, Ruthie clapped her hands noiselessly, balanced on the edge of her seat, and whispered, "Get ready."

"What is this kid wearing?" Joan asked, shirking her duty as cameraman while she gaped at the boy in stuffed brown pants, which rustled as he walked, leaking a trail of foam packing peanuts after every step. She was even more fascinated when he began to crow and squawk and do everything but gobble.

"Joan!"

Snapping into reality, Joan scanned the throng of first graders that waited behind the turkey boy. Most either looked bored or frozen in place, just their eyes drifting towards the audience. She found June and zoomed in. "Check her out, she's not even nervous."

"She's a star," Ruthie said.

"Cutest one up there," Helen said.

"Amen, Sister Helen," Deedee said.

Charlie shushed them. He pointed to the stage, where his sister had been given her cue and was linking arms with Dakota, the two girls leaving their rank in the front with all the other shortest children, and strutting their way over to the turkey. One of the paper plates attached to Dakota's clothes by safety pin came loose and scudded across the floor. She hesitated, unsure of herself, but June encouraged her along. When they passed by the turkey, his attempt to whistle produced only a hiss of air and a mist of saliva. And then the music began.

"_Chantilly lace and a pretty face  
__And a ponytail hanging down_..."

Out of habit, the four women seated side by side in the third row bopped along to the tune they had heard countless times in the past month. Ruthie snapped her fingers and wiggled her shoulders to the peppy beat; Joan had to hold the camera steady, so she just mouthed the lyrics and nodded her head; Helen bounced Charlie on her knees and patted his hands together, then rowed his arms, making him do the Swim; and Deedee shimmied until the charms on her hoop earrings jingled. Each of them had helped June prepare for this moment, contributing their own special dance tips.

"_That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk  
__Makes the world go round_..."

Now the turkey gyrated his body and motioned wildly, littering the tops of his sneakers with more foam. He squawked.

"_There ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl  
__That makes me act so funny, make me spend my money_..."

June kept her nose upturned: the snooty tablecloth unimpressed with the amorous bird. It was the plate's job to convince her otherwise, and Dakota prodded and snickered and prodded some more, urging June to watch the dance.

"_Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose  
__Like a girl, oh baby that's what I like_..."

The boy kicked into high gear, what little rhythm he'd had completely gone as he jerked and twitched to the Big Bopper's crestfallen, "_But, but, but oh honey_..."

"Oh baby, you kno-o-ow what I like," Charlie crooned in a loud voice. Helen clamped a hand over his mouth and smiled sheepishly at the people who turned to look.

As the chorus repeated, June's part called for her to give up being aloof and join the turkey in his whacky jig. She did so in a style like none other, combining the brief tap routine she had learned from Ruthie with a wide sweeping gesture suited for the ballroom, a move Helen lifted from many a Fred & Ginger waltz. And here came Deedee's influence -- a bit of hip and shoulder action that would have been risqué, if not performed by a six-year-old. The audience roared, especially when Joan's brand of hip hop and moonwalking followed.

After June reached the end of the first, she started another tap-waltz-jiggle-jive, improvising a number of steps. They were solely hers. All four instructors gaped at her and then each other. "Oh, my God!" "Did you teach her that?" "She's on fire!" "Joan, are you getting this? Make sure you're getting this!"

Joan got it. Every minute. Every whim of those fast little patent leather shoes, every bob of June's ponytail and its single fat ringlet, every cheer from the audience, and every bemused look on the faces of twenty or so first graders. For years to come, the Snows and the Girardis would be able to gather around the television and partake in the Thanksgiving tradition of watching their Junie bring down the house with her fancy footwork.

When she finished, June held out the sides of her lacy cloak, as if she wore an elegant gown, and curtsied majestically. She beamed as her family gave a standing ovation, hooting and hollering far more than was appropriate, Joan and Ruthie competing for the longest, loudest, "Woo!"

Ruthie won. Her voice soared to the stratosphere.

* * *

"Did you see me, Mama? Did you see?" June asked later, charging into her mother's open arms.

Ruthie smothered the girl with kisses. "You bet I did, darlin'."

"Was I good?"

"Junie Bear, there's no word big enough for how good you were."

"Thanks!" June said, throwing her arms around Ruthie's neck, squeezing. "And you know what, Mama? I wasn't _ascared_. Not even a little bit!"

* * *

Thanksgiving dinner was hosted at Ruthie's house, sans the dancing turkey and tablecloth. It was a task just convincing Deedee and Helen that cooking for two families wouldn't be burdensome, let alone actually doing so, but Ruthie didn't regret it. She wanted to stay busy; she needed to. And yet, no matter how many dishes she prepared or how deeply she immersed herself in sprucing up the house, caring for the children, work, friends, and anything else that presented itself, she couldn't keep the memories at bay. Despite his shortcomings, Donovan was always good about keeping anniversaries. And on this, the one year mark of his death, he made no exceptions.

Charlie didn't ask after his father much these days. Sometimes Ruthie caught him gazing at the family portrait on the mantelpiece, his smooth almost-four-year-old brow crinkling as though he were forty and had mislaid his keys. His face remained earnest as he studied those of his smiling parents, one's large hand on the other's small shoulder, toddler June in Mama's lap and infant Charlie cradled by Daddy. Occasionally he wondered, phrasing it like a statement, "Daddy's not at work."

"No, Boo. He's not."

"Okay." And then he would go back to his toys, satisfied. He seemed to have forgotten the teddy bear that masqueraded as a policeman, no longer his sole stuffed animal but the one he had insisted upon sleeping with every night for months. When he finally quit retrieving it from under the bed each evening, Ruthie left it there.

June's nightmares weren't quite as simple to be rid of. She didn't cling for hours anymore, didn't stir and cry if Ruthie tucked her back in and turned to leave, but now and then she still tiptoed from her room to the end of the hall, braving the darkness to reach her mother's side and whisper, "Mama, are you lonely? I'll sleep with you." Though the family psychologist had advised against it, Ruthie inevitably welcomed June under the covers. The little girl was courageous enough without being forced to sleep alone. And Ruthie felt guilty thinking so, but it was nice, for once, to be the protector rather than the protected.

Still... there were moments. Moments when she woke with a start, convinced Donovan was standing over her with that look or peeling back the edge of the blanket, alcohol and meanness on his breath. Deedee, Helen, Joan -- probably none of them had an inkling how many times they almost received a phone call at two, three, four in the morning. Just to talk. Helen would have been first choice. Last year, after a reunion full of tears, apologies, and hugs, it was Helen whom Ruthie found she confided in most. Some things she just could not bring herself to tell her mother or Joan. Some things they just didn't need to know.

But Joanie, God love her, she was Ruthie's saving grace. The world was anything but bleak with her in it. Like an eighteen-year-old possessed, she had thrown a party for every reason conceivable: In early December there was the "Welcome Back, Ruthie" surprise bash at school, followed by a private "Torching of the Sling" ceremony, more symbolic than literal, not long after Christmas. January brought a "We Won the Choir Competition" party, during which Joan, Dorothy and Jennifer pleaded for Ruthie's solo rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone," got it, and bawled from start to finish.

There wasn't much to celebrate in February, or so Ruthie thought until the surprise baby showers, both doused in enough pink to, as Deedee said of the first, choke a horse, while the boys at school covered their eyes, pretending to be blinded by the music room when they mistakenly wandered in on the second. "I talk to God, Ruthie. He told me you're having a girl," Joan said, when asked what was to be done with all the feminine gifts, should the baby come out boy. "Laugh, but you were there. You talked to him too." The girl's smile turned mysterious then, and after that Ruthie gravitated towards the racks of frilly clothes whenever she went shopping.

Charlie's birthday in March saw the house overrun by a dozen screaming preschoolers, kids Joan swore she would provide entertainment for if Ruthie dared invite so many. By entertainment Joan meant Grace, who was in the wrong place (her front yard), wrong time (noon, Saturday) and got recruited to help. Poor Grace didn't look too thrilled by her popularity with the youngsters or by the grins Joan and Ruthie turned their faces away to hide, but she treated Charlie extra special, as she had since he took a shine to her one day in early winter when she and her family stopped in for a visit. His "_'cross_ the street girlfriend," he called her.

With April came Ruthie's birthday and Joan's most elaborate function yet; a sleepover, to be exact, complete with chick flicks, enough junk food to satisfy the cravings of ten pregnant women, and Deedee's bra in the freezer by morning. The culprit was never identified, but all clues pointed at Helen. She denied it adamantly.

Joan's graduation in May gave Ruthie a chance to turn the tables a bit. After the commencement, which she wept through right along with Helen, and the Girardis' get-together, she stole Joan away for a few hours, took her to the swankiest restaurant in town, and slid a pair of freakishly hard to come by White Stripes tickets across the table. "Well, duh, you're going with me," Joan said, when Ruthie told her to take whomever she wanted to the concert.

The festivities tapered down in June. That's when Joan announced it was time to redecorate Ruthie's house, something planned on since that long, depressing day they had spent cleaning blood off the kitchen linoleum and glass off the living room floorboards, Joan working on hands and knees to get shards of angel wings from between the cracks. Recuperating, Ruthie had only been able to watch that last part. And, being very pregnant, she mostly watched the redecorating too, her feet propped up, a country station on the radio, Joan singing along when she wasn't asking, "You want this here, Ruthie? Does that look okay? Where should I put these?"

Summer slipped by from there, notable for its arrival of BJ, and June's birthday. Ruthie was the least surprised of anyone when, in September, Joan began her first college semester and declared herself a music major. They had discussed it at length and Joan had been full of questions and doubts, but a little encouragement was all she needed. As they worked together on polishing the girl's vocals and music reading, Ruthie discovered Joan's bashful side, something she never would have guessed existed. She couldn't help feeling a sort of motherly pride as the insecurity waned, Joan's fingers less hesitant on the keyboard, her voice steadier, more heartfelt. And when Helen fretted that perhaps music wasn't the right major for her daughter, that it might require too much discipline and patience, Ruthie said with certainty, "She'll do fine." So far she was being proven right.

Ruthie looked at Joan now, seated next to her at the dinner table, just shy of nineteen, the same age she had been when she met Donovan. And instead of the sadness and hurt she feared would overwhelm her today, a year later, she was suddenly filled with hope. Maybe she couldn't undo the pain of the past, maybe she would never regain all of what Donovan took from her: innocence, security, a lot of love, so much happiness. But God had seen fit to bless her with a friend like Joan and another like Helen, three beautiful children, Deedee for a mother -- each of them giving back tenfold those things she'd lost.

_You were wrong, Don_, she thought, gazing at his chair, the one Deedee sat in at the opposite end of the table. She tried not to think about them often, but she remembered his last words to her, his claim that God didn't care. And again she told him, wherever he was, _You were so very wrong_.

_

* * *

_

Late that evening, when the house was quiet, Tupperware bowls and Ziploc baggies of leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, and everyone but Joan gone home for the night, Ruthie drifted into the living room, expecting to find her children in a zombie-like state, their bellies full, eyes glued to a cartoon program. Instead she leaned over the back of the couch and gazed down on four sleeping faces. Joan lay with a throw pillow between her head and the armrest, and scrunched against her chest lay BJ, snug as a bug in her yellow sleeper with the bumblebee print. Only June's upper body could be seen, the rest of her wedged between Joan and the couch, half-swallowed by the cushions. And Charlie slept sitting up, his mouth partially open, legs draped over his older sister's and Joan's.

What a sight they were.

Ruthie almost fetched her camera then decided not to disturb their peace with a flashbulb. She settled for watching from above, sometimes reaching to smooth out a dark head of hair or BJ's fair one. When she touched Joan, the girl sighed, nuzzling into the pillow, her left cheek illuminated by the hyperactive colors of _SpongeBob Squarepants_ spilling from the television. In the mottled glow, Ruthie could just make out Joan's scar. It had healed into a faint pinkish indentation that, if Joan flushed or grinned widely, resembled teeth marks. Our old war wounds, she called it and the silvery pucker of skin that licked the curve of Ruthie's chin. They added character, she insisted.

And to that Ruthie always replied, "Darlin', we surely are a pair of characters, you and I."

Rounding the couch, she eased the remote from the tangle of bodies and switched off the TV. Before she straightened, she neared Joan's cheek and kissed that scar, the one that was there for her, because of her. It didn't matter how common having the girl as an overnight or weekend guest had become in the past year, Ruthie knew Joan stayed tonight as a guardian, driving the ghosts away, wanting to be there incase she was needed. And perhaps needing a little comfort of her own.

"Love ya, kiddo," Ruthie whispered, then reached for BJ, who had raised her head and blinked like a tiny Sleeping Beauty awaiting that special someone to wake her. Instead of fussing or whining, she smiled and kicked her feet at the air as she was lifted. She always had a smile for Mama.

Grinning back, Ruthie patted BJ's bottom and cuddled her. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the clean baby smell... how divine. As she strolled towards the antique rocking chair, a birthday gift from Deedee, she swayed BJ to and fro, dancing without music. Or so it seemed. When they were seated, Ruthie began to hum the tune she heard in her head, though she couldn't identify it until the words were already coming from her mouth:

"_Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come  
__Why should my heart be lonely and long for Heaven and home  
__When Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is He  
__His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me  
__His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me_..."

On the couch Joan stirred, certain she had woken in the middle of a dream about Heaven, choirs of angels singing. But, no -- there was just one voice, pure and precise, a sound like truth being spoken while all the rest were lies. And as Ruthie continued with her song, eyes closed, accompanied by the light squeak of the rocking chair and BJ's melodic "ahhs" and "oohs," Joan knew beyond a doubt that the words _were_ true. If she ever desired proof, she need only look at Ruthie. That's what she did now. She looked and she listened.

"_I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free  
__His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me_..."

-

THE END


	15. Author's Note

**Author's (final) Note: **Thank you all for reading my story. I hope you felt it was worth it! There really were a million other things I would like to have touched on (more about Donovan's death; Helen - and Joan and Ruthie - dealing with the aftermath of the shooting; Grace and Joan patching things up a bit more; etc), but I simply ran out of time. And I knew that if I didn't finish writing before I got back to school, I probably wouldn't finish the story at all (and school is proving that theory correct. I have time for no other writing but what's assigned in class. Bah). I would've been highly disappointed with myself if that had happened. Thank goodness it didn't.

Also, I know some of you were disappointed that I didn't use the other _Joan _characters more, but I just didn't feel like it was necessary in the story. I went into it intending to write it as a Joan/Helen story, but the more I wrote Joan and Ruthie together, the more I realized it was a story between those two. And Helen was the (main) supporting character, lol. I did plan on using Grace more, but that didn't pan out. And Will, Kevin, and Luke didn't seem relevant to the story. They wouldn't have been socializing much with Ruthie… and really, it was just about the women, anyway. As for Adam… he had no place in this story, as far as I was concerned. If he were still Joan's boyfriend, I would definitely have used him, but he's not and he broke Joan's (and my) heart, so I had no intention of including him.

Anyway, I hope you'll review and let me know what you think of the final chapter and the story as a whole. When I have time I'd like to write another _Joan_ fic, and I'm thinking of making it a sequel to this one. But we'll have to wait and see how that goes. So... thanks again to all you reviewers -- and if you haven't reviewed yet... what are you waiting for? ;oP

P.S. To those of you who know who Kristin Chenoweth (actress/singer/Broadway baby/coolest frickin' person on the planet) is, I thought I'd let you know that she was the inspiration for Ruthie. If this story had ever been an actual episode (sigh), Kristin would've been the only person allowed to play the role... 'cause I wrote it for her. Hence the million or so references/allusions to her throughout the story. I also have the story up at angelfire, with a bunch of banners and stuff I made to go with it ('cause I'm that big of a dork), but I don't know how to post the link here, so I'll try to put it in my bio. I wrote a poem about Kristin, too, and I'll put that in there if I can. Okay, done whoring my work. For now. Hee. Have a good Thanksgiving, guys!


End file.
